THE PHOENIX PROJECT

A HARVEY BENNETT NOVELLA

NICK THACKER

CONTENTS

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The Phoenix Project

Nick Thacker

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

A Word from the Author

The Napoleon Job

Napoleon

Billy

Saul

The Enigma Strain

Prologue

Prologue

Prologue

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Afterword

About the Author

Books by Nick Thacker

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THE PHOENIX PROJECT

NICK THACKER

A Harvey Bennett Story

1

THE PLANE WENT DOWN JUST outside the property line. It was far enough away that Ben could easily ignore it and not feel guilty about the whole thing.

But it was also close enough to his cabin that he knew he would have a difficult time ignoring it.

The news reached him the way any news did: through the mouth of someone else. Ben hadn't been an "off the grid" sort of guy since he'd been a ranger at Yellowstone National Park, and even then, the staff and crews had access to television and, once or twice a week, an internet-connected computer.

But it was his policy to generally tune out the rest of the world and their invented woes and worries as much as possible, and he'd been mostly successful at doing just that for the past few years. In spite of his cabin turning into state-of-the-art communication and intelligence depot and headquarters for his Civilian Special Operations team, Harvey "Ben" Bennett had managed to leave most of the communications gathering and intelligence dissemination to the rest of his group.

So it had been his wife, Juliette, who had told him about the crash of a small prop plane, just north of their property in the expansive Chugach State Park in southern Alaska, just off Highway 1. She'd heard about it online, and had been following the news for an hour or so while Ben had been furiously stirring his famous chili.

Snow lined the windows, meaning it had piled up high enough on the banks to be at least up to four feet total now, and it was still falling. The temperature outside was chilled sufficiently to be in the precarious range, but not yet into the realm of downright dangerous. Inside, on the other hand, was cozy, warm, and smelled of chili.

"Seems like it was just one guy," Julie called to him from the other room. "Traveling alone. Air traffic control called in the plane, they called the local stations, no one's telling who it is yet. They all just figure it's a small locally owned plane out for a late-morning flight."

“Not a smart thing to do,” Ben muttered.

“Yeah, but the tech these guys have nowadays,” she continued. “He could have been browsing Facebook and chatting with his wife on the phone when it happened.”

“Let’s hope he wasn’t. That would be a hell of a Christmas gift to her.” He stirred away a growing bubble and turned down the heat. “Are they sending out a search party?”

“No idea. I’d assume so, but wouldn’t it take at least a day to get people together at Christmastime?”

"No, they'll have a crew. The trouble will be getting through that part of the park. It's pretty much just all mountain ranges and glaciers, especially right now. No roads, either, and heli crews are going to be on tight schedules until this weather clears out. Plus, it'll be completely dark in about three hours, and it'll stay that way until well after 9 am tomorrow."

“It might not clear out until June.”

Ben shrugged. Probably not.

He placed a lid on the pot of chili, then refilled his glass of whiskey — noon or not, he was technically on vacation — and brought Julie a glass of her favorite wine — a cheap red blend from a box store in Anchorage. She was in her usual perch on the corner couch, her slippered feet curled up underneath her bottom, and her entire frame packed into a space the size of a large moving box.

“How do you sit like that?” he asked, smiling.

She stuck out her tongue. “How do you sit like that?”

Julie overacted an impression of Ben, placing her feet on the wood floor and stretching her knees as far apart as they would go, then slouching forward on the couch until her head was halfway down the back cushion.

“It’s more comfortable,” Ben said. “See?”

She shook her head and resumed her previous position, pulling the iPad back up to her face. “So, you gonna go find him?”

“What?” Ben asked. “Who?”

“The pilot — this guy whose plane went down. We’re closer to him than anyone else, and we could get there in a few hours.”

“‘We’ are celebrating Christmas,” Ben said, sipping his whiskey. The warmth of the whiskey, baseboard heater, and wood-burning stove was almost too much for him.

Almost.

He sighed. Life in the cabin was good — great, even. Married to the best person he'd ever met, working a job that had not existed five years ago, and making enough money to buy ten cabins. He didn't care about the money, but the work was more than meaningful to him. Impossible, most of the time, but meaningful.

The snow outside blew into the window, sticking for a few seconds before melting and sliding down to accumulate with the rest of the four-foot swells.

“It’s… cold, Jules. I’m not going out there.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s cold. I just said that.”

“You like the cold.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“We’re just sitting around. We don’t buy each other presents, and we don’t watch The Christmas Story on TV, so what’s the point? You should go.”

“I like The Christmas Story,” Ben said. “Haven’t seen it in years. Want to see if it’s on? I think I know how to work the remote —”

“Ben,” Julie said, her voice taking on that lower, more serious tone. “You know they’re not going to ask for your help.”

He shrugged again, this time so that Julie could see. "I know they won't. Why would they? I don't work for the state or the park. They have no reason to —"

“Everybody knows we live here, Ben. You’re basically a celebrity, at least in those circles. Everybody knows the CSO is here, too, even if they don’t know what we do.”

Ben sighed again, and this time it wasn’t a sigh of relief. The burden of responsibility…

"What am I supposed to do? Run around and look for a plane crash? Find the guy and save his life?"

Julie stared at him. “Yeah… that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Ben cracked his neck. If he were honest with himself, he'd been considering doing just that since Julie had told him where the plane had supposedly gone down. He knew he was capable, knew the land, and was closest to the crash site.

He knew he’d feel guilty for not trying to help.

He’d just hoped someone could somehow get out there before him.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.” He stood up and started walking toward their bedroom. “But you’re coming with.”

2

JULIE LED Ben down the attached hallway from the cabin’s kitchen into the CSO’s newer, modernized wing. Ben liked the space, but it was decidedly not cabin-y. Concrete construction plunged into the earth to form a bunker-like basement space. Those same walls rose an additional story above the cabin's single floor to create a three-story facility that housed the CSO's temporary living quarters, commercial kitchen, meeting spaces, and communications offices.

It was a multi-million-dollar build, paid for by the CSO’s benefactor and founder, Mr. E. He had overseen the entire construction process to the end, but had yet to set foot in the space. Ben assumed he never would, as he knew the man abhorred traveling outside of his own home.

Julie was bringing them to the communications ‘command center,’ a basement space that was nearly finished. One room, the size of Ben’s entire cabin, housed a state-of-the-art computer system and satellite uplink center that would be the envy of any basement-dwelling supernerd, and quite possibly the envy of entire militaries.

Ben didn’t understand what any of the equipment did, but he knew it was there to keep them safe in the field, so he appreciated it. Julie flicked a few buttons on a massive server rack in the corner, and a few computer monitors nearby came to life.

She had her iPad in her hand, and with a flick of her fingers over the screen, Ben saw the tiny picture she’d been looking at displayed in ultra-HD across the stack of triple-wide monitors.

“I’m not going to go with you,” she said, now working the computer keyboard. “But I’ll be with you.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow.

“Sort of,” she continued. “I can watch everything from here. Check it out.”

She pulled back on a joystick, and Ben saw the screen — a map, depicting the cabin and about a half-mile around it in all directions — zoomed out.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Is that a live feed. From a —”

“Satellite,” she said. “Yeah, Mr. E stationed one directly above us after the break-in this summer. Wants to make sure we’re safe.”

"You mean, make sure his investment is safe.”

Julie winked. “Yeah. That. Anyway, he’s got it placed so that it’s a perfect relay and interception point for the US government in regards to Russian military activity, so it’s a win-win. He rents them 90 percent of the bandwidth and lets us have the rest. It’s more than enough to give me the ability to control the onboard cameras.”

"And you'll be able to see me from it?”

“Sure,” she said. “It got enough detail that if I zoom out, then digitally enhance the image, I can get just past the northern edge of the property line.”

“Where the plane went down.”

“Exactly.” Julie worked the controls for a minute, then pulled two fingers apart on her iPad. The monitor display screen reacted in kind, and Ben saw the image of their property suddenly depicted in sharp detail.

“There,” he said, pointing to the monitors. “Looks like that’s it.”

A tiny, whitish-blue shape, in the form of a lowercase letter ’t,’ stood out from the dark greens of the trees and the bright-white snow in a region toward the top of the screen.

"That's Chugach," he said. "Probably not a mile into the park, just outside our line."

“That’s closer than I thought,” Julie said. “I think you can get there in, what? Three, four hours?”

“Yeah, probably. If I leave now.”

"Well, guess we know what the plan is." Julie pulled the computer chair back and sat down, shifting a few times before settling down and turning her attention once again to the screen. "Oh, and Ben — I can use the satellite to get an audio connection between us. So you'll be in constant contact with me unless you fall into a ravine or lose line-of-sight."

“Good to know. No falling into ravines.” He shook his head. “Jules, doesn’t it seem a bit too… abrupt?”

“What? Going out there?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Ben,” she said, turning to look up at him. “We’re trained for this sort of thing. We’re set up for it. we’ve got everything we need, and there’s no one else even remotely close enough to —”

“No, not that,” Ben said. “I get that. And you’re right. But I’m talking about this… crash.”

“What of it?”

“Well, I mean those Cessnas go down pretty regularly, especially up here. At least once a season. But it’s not the season. And there's no weather up there, at least not a storm. Just a little snow and they can easily fly above most of it."

“So… what?”

“And the plane — you said it was new, right? Almost all of the issues that cause a prop to go down are instrument-related, or a disconnect between the pilot and controls. This guy was flying a brand-new, decked out techwagon. It just… seems weird.”

She paused for a moment, clicking around on the screen and putting a GPS-marked rectangle around the crash site.

When she finished, she turned back to Ben. “That’s a reasonable point, Ben. I’ll look into it, follow the story and see if I can get any research on who it was in the plane and where he was coming from and heading. Mr. E can probably dig up anything that’s still being withheld by the authorities.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming along,” Ben said.

“But, this plane definitely went down,” she said. “And this guy — whoever he is — is out there, in the cold, probably severely injured.”

“Or dead.”

"Yeah, or dead. And if they have a family, they have the right to know."

Ben sniffed. Can’t argue with any of that. “Okay, fine. I get it. We’re it, at least for now. This guy’s dead, the least we can do is try to find him and get his body back. If he’s not dead, we’re his only shot at making it out of there alive.”

Julie nodded, and Ben began silently planning the loadout for the trip.

3

THE LOAD-OUT WAS SIMPLE, and Ben split it into three categories in his mind. Communication, survival, aid. This was intended to be a quick trip, so communication was the top priority. He had an iPad that he could connect to a headphone-mounted satellite uplink, as well as a phone which could do the same and a broadband walkie-talkie that he could use in case he reached a high area that might be able to pick up a signal.

Finally, he had placed everything in a backpack that had solar panels on the outside that would keep his devices and power supplies charged when and if he ran through an area of sunlight. All of the communications equipment was superfluous in a typical camping situation, but this mission was intended to be short and quick. In and out, there and back. Nothing to it, he told himself. He knew the land, and he knew Alaska.

The thing about Alaska is that it is a brutal place, which is why he considered the second priority nearly as much as the first. Survival would be a struggle if anything went wrong. During this time of year, conditions could turn from brutally cold to life-threatening in a matter of minutes, and he needed to be prepared. He had a fully stocked “bug-out-bag” mounted to the back of his snowmobile, just behind where the pilot would sit once he picked him up. Inside was everything one person would need to survive in the wilderness for a month.

Two people cut that number in half, but if it took that long to return, they would have far more significant issues to worry about.

At the bottom of it all, this whole trip was about aid. He needed to ensure that no matter what was wrong with the pilot, he could get them back to the cabin alive. He had attached a sled to the back of the snowmobile, on which he threw fuel, an extra first-aid kit, some splints and bandages, and a fully operational defibrillator. These he could discard and leave behind if he needed to use the sled for carrying a human instead.

Lastly, he packed two weapons: a rifle that he tied down to the sled with the other gear, and a Desert Eagle pistol he'd picked up in Peru, off the dead body of a man they'd been hunting for almost a year. It was a prized symbol of victory for him and Julie, but out here in the frozen wilderness of southern Alaska, it was so much more. The fifty-caliber pistol was a practical combatant against nature's deadliest predator: the grizzly bear. It wouldn't be a fair fight, but the Desert Eagle would be at least even the odds a bit.

Thanks to the extra space the sled provided, he had enough ammunition to lead a charge against a small army, and thanks to the price of the fifty-cal rounds, he probably had enough to fund a small army as well.

Julie checked over his provisions, asked a few questions, then gave him the go-ahead. “I think you’re set, Ben,” she said. “I’ll be watching the whole time, so long as you stay connected.”

“And if I disconnect, you’ll send help?”

Julie shrugged. "Sure, I mean, there will already be help heading that direction."

“That’s… not even a little bit reassuring.”

She leaned forward and up and kissed him. “I love you, husband.”

They had been married only a month ago, just before they’d taken a trip to Peru, where they had barely walked out with their lives. Since then, Ben had made the silent pledge to turn the CSO into an operation that worked proactively, rather than reactively, to save lives, discover hidden secrets, and aid in helping innocent people.

This, he had to admit, fit the bill. As much as he’d wanted to stay home and let the authorities deal with the downed plane, he knew he and Julie were the best shot the pilot had at surviving the cold.

If he were alive at all.

He pushed the thought out of his mind, put his coat on over his base layer, wool shirt and pants, and snow gear. Lastly, he stuck his feet into the waterproof hiking boots Julie had drug out of the closet.

“And you’re off,” she said.

“Remember,” he said. “If I’m not back in five hours, you’re calling it in.”

“Relax,” Julie answered. “There’s plenty of buffer. Three hours for travel, one for assessing and aiding, and one for buffer. If anything happens, you’ll be able to reach me. If you can’t, I wait and call it in.”

“It sounds so perfect,” he said. “I can’t even imagine what could go wrong.”

She looked at him strangely. “Can’t you?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Yeah, I was kidding. I can definitely think of what could go wrong.”

She pushed him backward and out the front door, then kissed him again. Ben felt the wind already whipping up around his ears as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. The weather would reach its coldest point long before that, however, as this was the part of the year when the sun rarely even poked up above the trees.

“I can think of all the things that can go wrong.”

“Don’t think about those,” Julie said, calling after him. “Think about what can go right.”

“I don’t die,” he said. “That’s about it.”

4

WITHIN FIFTEEN MINUTES of hitting the trail, the winter turned from the sweet, serene postcard landscape into the grueling, harsh whisper of death around every corner.

Within an hour, Ben felt the surreal loneliness of Alaska's real backcountry bleed into his psyche. He loved it here, but even he felt out of place for long periods.

After two hours, Ben wanted nothing more than to head back and curl up next to a warm fire. If he stayed the night here, he could take care of half that — he could easily get a fire going — but he knew he would begin missing human interaction.

Ben wasn’t alone in this area of the world, and his life depended on his knowing it. Wolves, typically preferring the solitude and quiet of the upper hills, sometimes strayed down this way when game was sparse. Bears, of course, were common, and running into them alone was the worst kind of unlucky.

But it was the weather itself that was the most threatening. The cold always seemed to find a way to seep in, against even the most durable protection. If it was damp enough, finding wood for a fire was near impossible, and that only made the cold worse. To top it off, the cold shifted everything — it moved the trees and nature and wildlife into a state of waiting, a state of weariness. A cold, long sleep. Hunting and trapping, primarily when one's life depended on it, was sometimes the most challenging task of all.

Ben hoped it wouldn't come to that. He had plenty of dry matches, lighters, lighter fluid, and gasoline. Plenty of food and water, packed down tight in both his pack and on his sled. If it came to it, he also had the ability to set traps, and he'd brought along a fishing pole and line.

There were a few streams along his route that Julie had highlighted on his iPad’s map. His battery was still full, at 96%, and he had a battery charger inside the solar-paneled backpack that was also full, should he need it. He’d opted to keep GPS location services on the entire time, and he’d verified with Julie that if he needed to, he could bounce a message off a satellite using a special app she’d installed, and a small, triangular device he could plug into the iPad’s headphone jack.

He decided to take advantage of that system now, both to test it and to check in with Julie. While guiding the snowmobile over the moguls and bumps that studded the natural trail through the trees, he grabbed the small device and plugged it in.

The iPad was affixed to his snowmobile's steering column by way of a simple spring-loaded mount, so he used his gloved finger — specially made with a conductive thread layer — to swipe at the screen to open the communications app. It took a minute to load and connect to the satellite but then began ringing.

He was already wearing the wireless headphones underneath his balaclava and ski cap.

“Hey, stud,” Julie said as her face appeared onscreen. “Miss me already?”

“I made it two-and-a-half hours,” he responded. “Geez.”

“You used to be the kind of guy who loved being alone in nature.”

“I’m still that guy, Jules, I’m just also a guy who has a perfectly good cabin, a perfectly good fireplace, and a perfectly good wife to share it with.”

“I’m perfectly good, huh?”

“You know it.”

“Mmm, that’s why I married you. Always had a way with words. Anyway, what’s up? How’s it going?”

"I'm about fifteen to twenty out, and there's a nice open valley coming up where I can gain some speed. Then a pretty sticky climb, but I can switchback up — I don't think there are too many trees."

"Not from what I could see. I've got your location updated, too, so we're good there. It seems like you're heading directly toward the crash site now."

“Got it. Well, I was just checking in. Just about out of coffee, but I’ll live.”

“You better. Check in again when you reach the site, got it?”

“Of course. Love you.”

They signed off, and Ben gunned it toward the break in the trees that announced the start of the vast, open valley. As they'd predicted, it was long enough and straight enough that he was able to increase his speed without straining the engine and fuel efficiency too much, and he made it to the beginning of the switchbacks before the last strains of sunlight had died off.

But when he began the arduous task of crawling up the side of the sloping hill, the winter wonderland around him turned into a pitch-black storm of silence and impending doom.

He shook thoughts of getting stranded out here away, replacing them with the memories of hot chocolate and warm chili in a wood-burning stove-heated cabin. He thought of Julie, walking around in one of his old Yellowstone sweaters, the sleeves dangling around her wrists and her tight yoga pants sending messages he couldn’t wait to answer.

The thoughts and memories filled his mind as he pulled the snowmobile and its load along the mountain pass. He worked and strained against the loosely packed snow, and within another twenty minutes — longer than he’d wanted — he reached the top.

He pulled the snowmobile to the left, heading due north once again, and immediately saw his destination.

Its own wing lights illuminated the plane, and it was still smoking, a bit of white puff falling from its tail. It had landed in the canopy, skidded across the tops of a few pines before taking one directly across its starboard wing and spinning, shearing off a portion of the tail and sending the entire thing straight down into the forest.

The nose was buried in a drift about eight feet deep, but he could see the pilot and copilot’s chairs through the front and port-side window.

Both were empty.

He hoped it meant that the pilot had landed safely, pulled himself out, and was now hiking toward civilization. He pulled the snowmobile closer, slowly, examining the scene from afar.

Within fifty yards, he pulled out the massive, million candle-power flashlight he'd bungee-corded to the snowmobile behind his right thigh, and turned it on.

The entire scene flashed to life. The small plane's fuselage was floating above the forest floor at a forty-five-degree angle, and save for the right wing and a few bits of the tail, it was in good shape.

The fact that it was smoking and had not yet exploded meant there were probably no fuel leaks from any lines internally, and that the plane had gone down with a working engine.

That realization gave Ben more questions than answers. He swiveled the light back and forth over the plane’s body and watched for movement. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for a scavenger — a wolf or smaller mammal — to arrive on-scene if there was an injured passenger inside, but he figured that since there weren’t any animals around, there also weren’t any injuries he’d have to tend to.

He marked that in the “good” category in his mind.

In and out, he told himself again. There and back.

He got off the snowmobile and approached the wreckage. He saw a few pieces of the plane’s prop lying to his left, as well as a few pieces of the tail or wing on his right.

Still no pilot in sight.

“Hello!” Ben called. “My name is Harvey Bennett — I’m here for, uh, help.”

He waited.

“Hello again,” he said. “If you’re there, anywhere, please let me know.”

He crunched forward over the snow, now nearing the port-side wing. It hovered at eye-level, and he ducked underneath it.

The earpiece in his ear began ringing. Julie. She must have seen his arrival and was calling to verify that everything was okay.

He walked closer, now looking through the back windows. Empty — no luggage, suitcases, backpacks, duffel bags. Whoever was flying wasn’t interested in staying very long.

Finally, he reached the pilot's chair. He looked through the window and saw...

Nothing.

His earpiece rang again.

There was no chair.

Instead, where the pilot would have been, he saw a strange assortment of computers, mechanical gears and levers, and cabling that lay bundled in a circular pile on the floor.

What the hell?

He looked at the area where the copilot would have been, again seeing nothing. Or, rather, seeing nothing that a human would be able to sit in. More computing devices, something that looked like a server rack, sat staring back at him.

He tapped the earpiece, accepting the call.

“Ben? You there? I saw that you reached the site and just wanted to —“

“Jules,” Ben said, cutting her off. “We’ve got a problem.”

5

“A PROBLEM?” Julie asked. “What do you mean?”

“I’m at the crash. The plane, it’s — it’s empty.”

“Empty?”

“I mean, no one’s inside.”

“Well, we expected this would be a possibility, right? The pilot probably tried to extricate themselves to get —“

“No, no. I mean, it’s empty — there’s no pilot, and there never was. All the seats up here have been replaced by... some sort of automated control system.”

“What?”

“Yeah, no joke. It’s like one of those self-driving cars. It has cameras and display screens and mechanical levers and stuff. It was flying by itself.”

“Maybe it was being piloted remotely? Like a drone?”

"Maybe," Ben said. "But still... it seems weird that it would be out here. And there's no reason for it to have gone down. The engine seems to have been intact, and the only damage is from the crash itself."

"Meaning, you can't tell why it fell out of the sky in the first place?"

“Right, exactly.”

Ben reached for the handle of the plane’s front door. He felt it click and compress under his hand, then he pulled.

It was locked.

He tried again. This time he felt a little give, then realized the door must have shifted a bit when it crashed, bending something internally that made opening the door difficult.

“I’m going to try to get inside. I’ll let you know what —“

He sensed the call disconnect. He cursed under his breath, wondering if he was too far from the snowmobile, and the Bluetooth connection had been dropped.

Ben was about to try the door once more when he sensed a strange vibration, then a clicking sound as all the lights on the plane and inside on the controls died.

He took a step back. “What the —“

The click disappeared, then the world around him fell silent. Nothing stirred, nothing moved. It was as if the forest itself had been switched off.

He turned to move back toward the snowmobile. As he did, he felt a slight pressing sensation near his ear, then a whoosh of air and a cracking sound.

He had just been shot at.

Ben fell to the ground instinctively, pressing his face down into the snow. It was the first reaction his body thought of, but he quickly realized that it made him that much more vulnerable.

Another shot whizzed by him, landing in the snow and creating a small, smoking hole.

This time Ben was able to get a better sense of where the shot had been fired from. He rolled sideways, away from the plane. Whoever was attacking him was now firing blind, into the darkness. He got onto his hands and knees, then onto his feet and crouch-ran back to the snowmobile.

Not enough time to dig out the rifle. He reached the seat of the vehicle and reached down for the pistol. The massive Desert Eagle was loaded with seven rounds, and he gripped it in the dark, working it through his right hand to familiarize himself with the deadly weapon once again.

Hammer back one click. Safety on. He cocked it fully, then flicked the safety off.

Two hands.

He crouched behind the snowmobile, using the rounded dashboard area between the handlebars as a rest for the pistol’s barrel. The snowmobile was pointing directly at the location where he assumed the shots had come from.

He waited.

Seven rounds were not enough to warrant wasting a couple in pitch-black conditions.

For half a minute, neither party moved. Ben controlled his breaths, allowing as little air as possible to escape. Small, controlled, even. He willed his mind to consider nothing but the threat directly in front of him. He didn’t think about Julie, about the pilot of the plane. Nothing but the shooter.

Finally, he decided to change his strategy. Whoever was hiding in the trees wasn't about to walk out and show themselves, but Ben figured they might think Ben was someone else.

“My name is Harvey Bennett,” he called out. “I’m a civilian. Here to check on the plane and see if the pilot’s okay.”

He waited. Were they even still there? He strained his hearing, tried to notice anything out of the ordinary.

The other shooter, if they were there, was completely silent.

“I don’t want to shoot you, but I really don’t want to be shot at.”

He considered his next option. Run? Keep hiding? Go search for whoever’s shooting?

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Dead. Whatever clicking noise he’d heard must have been some sort of EMP — enough power to knock out everything electronic in the near vicinity, including his snowmobile’s electronic ignition mechanism.

He only hoped it was a temporary problem.

There was just enough light from the stars above, reflecting off the white snow, that his eyes adjusted and he could see the plane’s shadowy silhouette, about ten feet to his left. The trees near the plane’s tail were about twenty feet from him, and the shooter was hiding somewhere there.

That meant he was well-protected behind the snowmobile, but he was also unable to move. The snowmobile was dead, and there was no way to know when — or if — it would begin working again.

He was also cold and growing colder by the minute. The sun had set now, and it would be gone for far more than the twelve or so hours enjoyed by the rest of the US states. He looked at his watch.

4:13 pm.

6

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON, and he wouldn't see the sun again until near 10 am the next morning. It wouldn't get much colder than it was now unless lousy weather rolled in, but it was already cold enough.

He shivered.

I have to make a move, he thought. I need to get ahead of this.

He couldn’t wait out here all night, and whoever this asshole was shooting at him — a lost hunter, the pilot, some random thief — he didn’t care. He needed to get back to Julie.

He unstrapped the pack from the snowmobile. If he were going to have to hike back to the cabin, he'd do it. But he wasn't about to head out without a survival pack.

And an iPad. He unclipped the tablet from the holster and shoved it into the space inside the zippered back of his pack, then slung the whole thing over his shoulder.

If the shooter was watching him or could hear him, Ben didn’t know. No more shots had been fired.

Finally, ready to haul out, Ben turned one last time at the still-smoking plane and gave it a final once-over. He was sure there had never been anyone inside it: no blood, no clothing, no personal items.

Except...

There. His eye caught a glint of something poking out of the snow, just beneath the considerable snowbank the plane's nose was poking out of. It was dark but had a metallic sheen to it.

He weighed his options. It could be nothing, but it could also be something that gave him a clue as to the reason for the crash.

Is it worth getting shot over?

He’d been shot at before — these days, it felt like it was part of his job. Not a part he enjoyed, but certainly something he’d grown more accustomed to.

Fine.

Ben sighed, then tightened the straps on the pack. He crouched, then ran as fast as he could toward the front of the plane. He didn't stop when he reached the black object, merely pulling it out of the snow with a single hand and continuing, up and over the snowbank. It gave him a bit of trouble, as he hadn't realized how large and bulky the thing actually was, but he was able to tuck it up and under his arm as he ran.

The shooter was, in fact, still there.

Two rounds flew out of the person's gun and landed dangerously close to Ben's backside, but the shooter was wide. Ben safely made it up and over the bank, then continued through the trees, trying to put as much distance between himself and the shooter.

Whatever the shooter wanted, Ben hoped to God it was something still inside the plane, and not whatever it was he’d just picked up.

He wanted to be done with this mess, and he wanted to get warm once again.

He targeted a boulder between two densely forested sections of the mountain slope up ahead, ran around it, then collapsed into a sitting position on the other side of it.

He listened for a full minute. There was no way anything — human or animal — could sneak up on him here. The snow and forest floor was too noisy, the surrounding air too quiet.

Nothing.

He waited another minute, just to be cautious, then finally let out a breath of relief.

When he pulled the object out and set it on his lap, the breath left him once again.

It was a laptop.

He opened the lid.

The message staring back him illuminated far more of the forest than he would have liked, the screen’s background nearly completely white. Only a single sentence in the center of the window.

>> Flight control overridden. Continue?

7

“I’M east of the crash site,” Ben said.

"Hold on; I'm going to see if I can get a visual."

“I don’t think you’ll be able to, Jules,” Ben said. “It’s pitch-black out here, and I’m under some heavy tree covering.”

“Okay, no problem. What’s the situation?”

“Well... it’s complicated. I got disconnected earlier — some sort of EMP pulse took out the plane’s electronics, and my gear was next to it. My phone only now just turned back on. Then they started shooting at me, and —“

“What! Shooting at you?”

“Yeah, hold on, there’s more. I was able to grab a laptop in a rugged case — I think it was the computer that was handling the flight controls.”

“It was flying the plane?” Julie asked. “Like a software-based autopilot?”

"Yeah, exactly. I opened it up, and it said the flight control had been overridden."

“Ben, we need the data on that laptop.”

“Yeah, I agree. I’ll swing back to the snowmobile and see if it’s —“

“No, Ben. Not while there’s someone out there trying to kill you. Just hike back.”

“It’s going to take a day to get back, Jules, and —“

“Ben, I’m not arguing. Whatever’s on that laptop is probably exactly what they’re looking for. If you go back, you’re basically handing it to them. Do they know where you are right now?”

“No, but —“

"Then, just start walking south. Hit the ridge, then follow it back down to the river and cross when the cliffs end. Then —"

“Julie, wait,” Ben said. “I’m on the computer right now. Is there a way to transfer the data using the satellite uplink?”

There was a pause.

“You have your pack?”

“Sure, right here.”

“Okay, great. Yeah, good idea. In the front flap is a small adaptor and electronics kit. There should be an all-in-one USB adaptor. You can use it on either the iPad or your phone, as long as you leave the uplink plugged into the headphone jack.

“It’ll take a while to get started, but if you start the transfer and try to maintain line-of-sight with the satellite, the upload speed should improve drastically.”

“Got it. Hold on.”

Ben rummaged through his pack and found the adaptor and cable. He plugged one end into the phone and the other into the computer. The computer immediately recognized the new peripheral, showing him an alert box. He clicked on it, dismissed the notice, then navigated to the desktop.

“Any idea what folders I should be uploading?”

“Well, all of them, if you can,” Julie said. "But start with the main hard drive? Depending on what's on there, it could take an hour or all night. My guess is that the laptop was purpose-built for this task, and the majority of the files are code."

“Yeah, and it looks like half the stuff is in Russian.”

“Russian?”

“Yep. Cyrillic alphabet all over the icons on the desktop, and many of the files in the main hard drive. Anything in English is impossible to parse, too. Looks like this was some Russian-American super geek’s laptop.”

“Could be. Still, just dump everything into that USB transfer window, then close the machine — it should still transfer. Oh, and you’ll need to move the uplink to that device, which means —“

“Which means we won’t be able to communicate until the transfer’s finished.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, noted. I’ll start the transfer when we close this call. If anything happens, I’ll manually shut it down then try to call you.”

Ben clicked around a few more times, then initiated the first part of the transfer by dragging the folder called “HD” into the USB transfer window.

“I’m ready. Heading back your way.”

There was another pause. Ben checked the phone, wondering if the connection had somehow been severed. It hadn’t, and Julie’s voice returned a few seconds later.

“Uh, Ben? Update.”

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got activity, coming from the southwest.”

“From the — that’s the direction I’m trying to —“

“Yeah, I know. Two heat signatures. Too dark to see clearly with the satellite, but it’s telling me they’re moving quickly.”

“Two? That’s probably —“

“Snowmobiles, judging by their speed and profile. Yeah.”

“I’m guessing they’re not out for an evening ride.”

“Probably not. Likely the first of the responders to get clearance to head to the crash site. And...“

“What?”

“And there are two more, heading in from the north. Same signatures. Snowmobiles.”

“First responders wouldn’t come from two directions. That’s the park that way, so it makes even less sense.”

“Unless they’re not first responders.”

“Right,” Ben said, sighing. “That’s what I’m thinking. Probably more of the same folks who were shooting at me.”

“I’m thinking Army. If that’s the case, you can at least try pleading your case. But that’s if you don’t get shot at first.

“But you can’t come this way, Ben. There’s only one way off the ridge, and you’ll both get there at the same time.”

“Plus, I’m on foot. I’ve got the Eagle, but seven rounds in the dark, from a pistol... it’s not even nearly enough.”

“Okay, Ben. Change of plans. If you’re not far from the crash site, you’ll have a few extra minutes there to test the snowmobile. If you can get it working again, that’s your ride. Head west then, down the ridge to the plain, where you can at least get up to speed. You can head around the long way and circle back to the cabin.

“And if you can’t get it working, at least you’ll have the sled.”

Ben nodded, knowing what she meant. At least you’ll have the rifle and extra ammunition. He could make a stand against whoever was coming to the crash site, or — a better option — he could take what he could carry, head into the woods, and move southwest on foot.

“Okay, got it. I’m going to keep uploading as I go, so I’ll be incommunicado for a bit.”

“Stay safe, Ben. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You mean like head to a crash site in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness at night all alone? Got it.”

He clicked off the phone call, then began the transfer. He closed the lid of the laptop then added it to the contents of his pack. As he did, he heard a new sound — the only sound — far off on the horizon.

A gentle whine, the swelling ebb and flow of an engine. Then another.

Then another and another from a different direction.

The snowmobiles. They were closing in.

Ben slung the backpack over his shoulder and, holding the Desert Eagle with his left hand, began toward the crash site once again.

8

WHOEVER THE SHOOTER WAS, Ben assumed they wanted something from the plane. Ben had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and he figured the shooter wouldn't chase him through the forest just to kill him.

But if he knew I had the laptop...

There wasn’t anything else Ben could imagine the person would want from the crash site. That meant Ben was a target, as the shooter would have seen Ben grab the case as he ran away.

And now I’m heading right back into the thick of it.

He heard the sound of the other four snowmobiles converging on him, the odd harmonies of each pair of engines in a strange stereo, two to Ben's right, and two to his left.

The crash site was brighter and easier to see, as if the stars had returned in full force to witness the events taking place on Earth.

Ben reached the plane's nose, and the snowbank it was tucked in to, and he crouched behind it for another minute to listen. It was difficult to hear over the sound of the growing engine noise, but he wasn't about to rush into a gunfight in the dark, without at least checking to see where the shooter was.

But he heard and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He peered over the top of the bank at the area beyond the tail of the plane, where the shooter had been before. It was lit better now, and he could see — barely — about twenty feet into the forest.

No one stared back at him.

Okay, Ben. Now or never.

He needed to get his snowmobile working. It was likely that the electronics had just been temporarily overwhelmed by the EMP pulse like his phone and iPad, but it was also possible that the pulse was still emitting. In that case, he would need to push the snowmobile out and down the ridge a bit until he was out of range.

If that were the case, he would detach the sled and leave it behind, opting to come back for it later. He stuck the pistol into his left pocket, wishing he’d have thought of wearing a holster. Even a belt holster would have been helpful, but he hadn’t thought he’d be engaged in any standoffs.

He crouch-ran once again toward the snowmobile, flicking the key to the on position before he'd even gotten on top of it. He was relieved to hear the telltale clicking sound and the electronic hum of the dashboard lights as the machine powered on.

He turned the key one more click and then hovered over the ignition button with his finger.

And then he felt the cold steel of a pistol barrel pressed to the side of his temple.

He slowly raised his hands up, placing them behind his head.

“My name’s Harvey Bennet,” he said. He enunciated clearly, even though the snow and cold air made speaking difficult. “I live nearby, and I —“

He felt the smack of the pistol’s butt across the back of his head before he realized what was happening.

Far off in the distance, the engine noise grew louder.

Then the engines died away, and the sound was replaced by silence.

His vision, too, blurred and failed.

Ben slunk forward onto the snowmobile’s handlebars, feeling the sleep coming over him.

No...

He felt the rough gloved hands of the shooter as they pulled at him, heard him grunting with Ben’s weight, trying to free the much larger man from the seat.

And then he heard and felt nothing.

9

BEN WOKE ON HIS BACK, the snow creeping up the back of his head and melting as it made contact with his face and ears. It was a chilling yet oddly comforting feeling. He blinked a few times.

How long —

The shooter was still there, still fumbling onto the snowmobile.

Ben must have only been out a few seconds. Made sense, as he felt the throbbing bruise taking shape on the upper part of the back of his head. The shooter’s aim had been way too high — he’d barely knocked Ben out.

The sound

Ben shifted a bit, making sure he was able to move and not somehow incapacitated. He waited, allowing the noise of the incoming snowmobiles to conceal his movements.

The shooter’s back was to him, and the man was thin, a bit shorter than Ben but taller than average. He had long, graying hair, and Ben caught wisps of it curling up and out from beneath his cap.

The shooter hit the ignition switch, and Ben's snowmobile racked to life. Ben made his move.

He pulled out his pistol and lurched up and forward, trying to roll and get to his feet simultaneously. The snow hindered his movement, and he felt himself falling sideways. He recovered quickly, but the shooter must have sensed the commotion.

The shooter turned, wide-eyed, just as Ben brought the pistol down. Ben had been hoping to take the man just like he'd been taken, with a single swift blow to the back of the head, only this time ensuring that his prey was out cold for longer than thirty seconds.

But the shooter got his arm up just in time, simultaneously dodging backward. Ben's pistol missed completely, and his fist merely knocked against the smaller man's forearm.

The sound of the set of snowmobile engines bearing down on them from the north died away.

They’re here, Ben realized.

The second pair would be here in seconds, and Ben needed to get as far away from this place as possible.

Still, the first set of engines had stopped farther away than Ben would have thought. It sounded like they were still out of this stand of trees, somewhere higher up on the mountain in the park.

Maybe I’ve got a few extra seconds.

Ben had already planned his counterattack, in case something just like this happened. He swung upward with his left hand, catching the shooter in the chest and clearly taking the man by surprise.

He grunted in pain, falling off the right side of the snowmobile. Ben leaned in, jumping on the guy and landing on his knees before he could drop fully off.

The man grabbed Ben’s face, squeezing, but Ben could tell the man wasn’t nearly strong enough to make this a dangerous attack. He rolled sideways, out of reach, and brought his pistol up and into the man’s face.

Unfortunately, the shooter had anticipated just this move, and he brought his own fist to Ben’s temple, smacking Ben’s head sideways.

Ben roared in pain, then jumped backward. He was on his feet, and the shooter was still wrapped up in the vehicle, one leg on each side of the craft with his torso hanging slightly to the right of it. He came up quickly again, spry and in shape, if not a trained fighter.

Ben was ready. He jumped forward, landing a tackling blow to the man’s upper body and sending both of them flying off the side of the snowmobile. They hit, hard, on a patch of forest floor that hadn’t been covered by enough snow to slow their fall, and Ben felt the air knocked out of him.

He was in better shape than the shooter, though, who was gasping for breath. Ben noticed a few large rocks strewn about and assumed that he had landed on his back on one of them.

He pulled the pistol up and pointed it at the man’s face. Breathing slowly, steadily, not quite back to normal but still with the upper hand, he spoke.

"You tried to kill me twice now. Should I return the favor?"

The man stared up at him. Ben stood, ensuring the power dynamic had been sufficiently established.

“Do I need to ask again?”

The man shook his head.

“What’s your name?”

The man didn’t answer.

Ben sighed. "Get up. Now." He motioned with the Desert Eagle, and the man complied.

Standing toe-to-toe, Ben sized him up. He was thinner and shorter than Ben, but scrappy. His face was weathered, a darker shade than Ben’s but still white. He looked like he could be American, but also European or even slightly Asian. It was difficult to tell in the dark, and the shadows cast over his face by the skull cap didn’t help.

“What is your name?” Ben asked again.

The man opened his mouth to speak.

Before the words came out, the man’s shoulder exploded in a mix of blood and clothing. He lurched forward, falling into Ben’s arms.

Both men fell to the ground, Ben cradling the man with one hand while still trying to retain control of the firearm with his other. He let the man slide to a spot on the tops of Ben’s legs, while Ben looked up and behind him.

The other snowmobiles had stopped as well. He was facing south, and that was where the shot had come from.

They’re here.

Ben squinted through the trees but couldn’t see anyone standing nearby. Further off in the distance, right about where the steeper ridge started falling back down toward the river, he thought he could see the outline of a snowmobile, white and black on the white and black canvas of snow and nighttime trees.

Need to move, now. The words came to him subconsciously, and he followed the instructions subconsciously.

He looked down. The shooter was breathing. Looking up at Ben. His eyes, pleading.

He sighed. This man needs medical attention.

And in another part of his brain, this man shot at me.

The response was there before the thought even ended: You have medical gear. You have enough training to take care of a bullet wound through a shoulder.

He sighed again, then cursed under his breath.

Ben slid backward toward the sled, quickly unsnapping the gear and pushing it off the side. He pulled the shooter onto the sled, then placed the man's own hand against his shoulder. "Hold that," he said gruffly.

The man looked up at Ben. He had no idea if the guy understood English, but at least he’d tried. If you die now, it’s on you.

He looked down once more, seeing the rifle. Hoping to prevent any more stupid situations, he unsnapped the rifle from its clips and hoisted it up and over his shoulder with the attached strap. Then he climbed onto the snowmobile, which was still coughing in idle.

He didn’t wait to see where the new shooter was — he gunned the engine, yanking the sled behind him as he sped off to the west. It wouldn’t be a smooth ride for either of them, but Ben wasn’t interested in comfort.

He wanted to be home. He wanted to be warm.

And he wanted to stop getting shot at.

10

THE ROUTE WEST was slow and miserable, but no one had shot at them — yet. Ben had to keep the snowmobile under 10 miles per hour, both for the occupant of the sled’s health and due to the fact that there were no trails, human-created or natural, through this area.

He'd been up on this ridge a few times on trapping and hunting trips, but it was technically park-owned land, and it was treacherous. Situated at the very edge of the mountain range, the ridge seemed to give up and die — in the most brutal way possible: by descending straight down to the river, now about two-hundred feet below him.

He wanted to follow the ridgeline as he knew the cliffs descended and shallowed eventually, leading to a saddle-shaped central spot that was low enough to switchback down, with a section of river that was navigable.

That was where he was headed. Julie had wanted him to go east, to move around the snowmobiles approaching from the south. He’d chosen this in the moment, mostly because he hadn’t wanted to turn around and run through the crash site another time.

The snowmobile had been facing east, so they were heading east.

That meant there was another mile of this before the ridge began descending downward, and if the other four snowmobiles’ riders had heard or seen their escape, they could easily overcome Ben.

Worse, the shooter he was hauling behind him was groaning, the pain of his shoulder injury not sated by the bumpy, meandering ride on a hard plastic shell.

“Shut up,” Ben yelled back.

The man groaned louder.

"You're like a three-year-old, you know that?"

The man groaned again. This time Ben thought he heard a string of Russian-sounding curse words.

So you are Russian.

“I’ll stop up here and get you bandaged up,” Ben said. “There’s a rock outcropping we can duck behind.”

He slowed the vehicle and swung wide around the base of the outcropping.

“I need to listen for the other snowmobiles, anyway.”

Ben was still throttling down and turning when he heard the man respond in English.

“They will be here. Only time. They will come.”

Ben frowned. “Okay, so you do speak. And you speak English. But you’re not American.”

“Russian-born. Live in America for twenty years.”

“Man, you are really holding onto that accent. Can’t let the motherland die in your heart, huh?”

No response.

“What’s your name.”

“Bolshevik”

“Okay, Bolshevik. Why the hell did you try to kill me?”

He pulled the snowmobile behind a large boulder, protected on three sides by huge pines, and jumped off. He walked back to Bolshevik, who was clutching his shoulder. His face had paled a few shades.

“I was trying to kill them,” he said. “You got in way.”

“I got in — I was trying to save the pilot, asshole.”

“No pilot,” Bolshevik said.

Ben raised both eyebrows. “Ah, really? No, you don’t say. Thanks for that. I didn’t realize that your twisted little science experiment was going to land in my backyard.”

“Is not mine.”

Ben leaned down and pulled out the tiny first aid kit from his backpack. The larger kit was back at the crash site, but all he really needed was some antiseptic wipes and a piece of cloth.

The cloth he ripped from the man’s own shirt.

He wasn’t going to extract the bullet. Out here, with the additional bleeding, that was sure death. Instead, he’d have to hope he could get the man back to the cabin where they could work on him under the light.

And in the warmth.

"No? Well, that's good to know. But you made it, right? You wrote the code?”

The man looked up at Ben, inquisitively.

“Yeah, asshole. I stole your laptop.”

The man’s face completely lit up, then registered surprise. Finally, it fell into a mask of anger. “You have laptop?”

Ben didn’t answer. “What’s on it? What is it about that software? It flies planes, doesn’t it? Some sort of creepy autopilot?”

The man snickered.

“Oh, something’s funny now? Seems like you’re the one about to bleed out on the snow unless I get this shoulder wrapped. Or, I guess I could just drive back home. Let those guys back there do whatever they want with you.”

The man didn’t flinch.

“Not autopilot,” he said in his stilted, thick Russian accent.

“Oh, okay. Right. So who was flying the plane?”

“Laptop was flying the plane. But not autopilot.”

“What, then?” Ben tied off the bandage, then wiped around it with the antiseptic wipe. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he had. The guy would at least live until he could get him safely back to the cabin.

First, though, he wanted to know who he was saving. Especially since this man, Bolshevik, had tried to kill him.

Bolshevik moved to sit up, and Ben helped him.

“Food?” Bolshevik asked.

“Man, you are not a cheap date. I’ve got venison — deer. And elk, actually. You like that?”

Bolshevik nodded.

Ben handed him a small baggie of dried meat and an extra bottle of water from his pack. Bolshevik ate the entire bag and drank half the bottle before speaking again.

“I work at tech company. Private contractor for US government.”

Ben nodded. “My favorite type of contractor.”

“Project was artificial intelligence. Making robots, working to perfect systems integrations with modern flight logistics.”

Ben didn’t pretend to understand. “So, uh, nerd stuff.”

Bolshevik smiled. “Yes, nerd stuff. Exactly.”

“And what was your role in it?”

Bolshevik motioned with his head in the direction of the plane crash. “That. The flight control system.”

“You — were part of that team?”

“I created it. I was team.”

“And I’m guessing the government didn’t like what you were doing with it? Crashing it into the ground here in the middle of nowhere. I mean, the plane wasn’t much — brand-new, but it’s over-the-counter Cessna stuff. It’s the guts inside that would be worth all the money. That computer system, and the controls — man, that could be worth over a million dollars just by itself.”

“Ten million,” Bolshevik said. The smile was gone.

“Ten million? Damn,” Ben said. “Okay, so they’re pissed because you took it for a joy ride?”

Bolshevik looked strangely at Ben. Then he shook his head. “No, you must not understand. I am not US citizen. Am born in Russia, am still Russian. My home is Russia.”

Ben sighed. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

Bolshevik continued. "You cannot understand what your government wants with this technology: my project, my years of dedication. Only your government would fund it, but I finally discovered why.

“They want technology, but not for reasons promised to me. They will destroy lives with this technology. Russian lives.”

Ben nodded. “So you... tried to steal it?”

Bolshevik stared straight ahead, then sniffed. He worked his hand over his wounded shoulder. “I am reclaiming it. I will not have my work be a part of the new age of warfare.”

“Bolshevik, did you steal the tech? The laptop?”

“The tech is mine.”

“Bolshevik —“

“They hacked it. I was flying it home. Refueling stops every hundred kilometer, for safety and so I could track it from the ground. Safest way. I was going to —“

“You were going to fly it to Russia?” Ben asked. “And then what? You thought you could just —“

“It would not have been discovered. But US government found out. My company found out. They hacked it. Brought plane down here. Someone happened to see it in the air, tracked it as it went down. News heard of it. No other way for you to know of it. But government has been chasing me since it took off.”

“You’re a fugitive of the United States government, tracking the software you created, that you claim they stole from you?”

Bolshevik nodded.

“And you want to fly it to Russia, where you can work on it in peace?”

Again, he nodded.

Ben laughed. “Bolshevik, you may have been here for twenty years, but you must be dense. If you think that was a good idea, and that the US government wouldn’t go to any length to find you, you’re out of your mind.

“I’ve done enough work with that same government to know what they’re interested in, and let me give you a hint: it’s not your safety and well-being. That plane crashing in my backyard was the best possible outcome for you.”

Bolshevik looked confused.

“No, seriously,” Ben said. “They think you’re dead, they find the laptop, they don’t care to look around. That’s all they want. They want your tech, not you. You’re home free, buddy. Just —“

“I will not give them laptop.”

“Well, lucky for you, you don’t have the laptop.”

Bolshevik looked like he was going to scream at Ben, but before either man could speak again, Ben heard the sound of snowmobiles again.

They’re coming, Ben thought. They’re coming for both of us now.

11

BEN’S SNOWMOBILE WAS FAST.

The four chasing them were faster.

He'd intended to run up and around the lower portion of the park, doubling back to the north of the plane crash site and taking advantage of the relatively open, easy to navigate the area on the plateau-like top of the mountain. Eventually, he planned on making a near full-circle around the crash site, then snaking back down the side of the ridge, over the river, and back home.

There, he hoped Julie would be able to help him get Bolshevik fixed up, get his data and whatever information he would offer, and together they could make a plan.

Instead, he made it up and around the crash site, then back down to the steepest part of the ridge. The cliffs here overlooked a shallow, rapids-infested area of the river that wound and bucked back on itself before meandering once again in a generally southwesterly direction.

The problem was twofold: his snowmobile wasn’t as fast as the other four, as he was carrying two full-grown humans, and he was dragging one of them behind him on the sled.

The second problem was that the snow had stopped falling. His tracks were laid bare, evident and visible to anyone passing within a hundred feet of them. The unnatural lines in the snow were worse than a beacon to Ben's location — they were literally pointing the soldiers in the right direction.

He pulled the snowmobile to a halt, knowing that his strategy now needed to move from “run away and lose them” to something bordering on diplomacy. He had been caught in the middle of all of this; that part was true.

The four soldiers — and he could see that they were, in fact, soldiers — were pulling up behind him while he got off the snowmobile and helped Bolshevik to his feet. They were pointing assault rifles at him, their snow camo winter fatigues now harshly contrasting them against the dark trunks of the pines they stood in front of.

He had lost the race, but he wasn’t about to lose the battle.

Ben put his arms up. “Look, guys, I was just checking out the crash site. Trying to help, however I —“

“Save it,” one of the soldiers said. Corporal. Looks to be about my age, Ben thought. The man had a plain, youthful face, but most of it was hidden behind snow goggles and a beanie.

“My name is Har —“

"We don't care about you," the man said. "Give us Bolshevik, and we'll be out of your hands."

Ben shrugged, then turned to Bolshevik. "Can't really help you anymore, friend."

“They will lock me up,” he said, under his breath. “I will disappear.”

Ben sighed. The three other soldiers kept their rifles up, stepping forward. They were standing against the edge of the trees, their snowmobiles parked in a semi-circular formation just past a few pines. Ben and Bolshevik were outnumbered and clearly standing on the proverbial lower ground.

Their backs were to the cliff, and Ben could hear both the winds whipping up and around his ears and the sound of the far-off rapids crashing against the rocky bends in the river. This section of the river wouldn't freeze, even during the coldest months of the year. Upstream and closer to Ben's cabin, the slower-moving part would freeze, but some of the water would continue rushing underneath the ice.

It made for decent ice fishing, and once again, Ben wondered what he was doing up here. Cold, tired, and now facing a firing squad.

“Bolshevik,” the corporal said. “We need you to come with us. Now.”

Bolshevik sniffed, then wiped his face with the hand that had been holding his injured shoulder.

“He’s injured,” Ben said. “You guys shot him. Why don’t we head down the mountain, get to my cabin, and we can —“

“I told you to shut your mouth, son,” the corporal said.

“Son?” Ben asked. “First of all, I’m probably older than you. Second of all, you said nothing about shutting my mouth. You just said save it, which is code for I’m an asshole.”

The soldiers stared at Ben. One of the younger soldiers’ mouth hung open.

“I’m up here, against my will, trying to help this guy out. I’m tired, cold, and now I’m pissed. I know you don't know me, and I don't know you, but trust me — I've lived through far worse than this. You’re not going to scare me, and I know you’re not going to shoot me. You know I’m a civilian, and you know I’m telling the truth.”

None of the soldiers moved. Bolshevik, however, stepped to the side, turning to Ben.

The soldiers tensed.

“What are you doing?” Ben asked.

“Give me the laptop,” Bolshevik said.

His voice was resigned as if he'd already given up.

“What?” Ben asked. “You said — you told me what your company’s going to do with it. With your tech.”

“Gentlemen,” the corporal said. “You’ve got exactly one minute to comply with my orders before I’m going to —“

Ben ignored him. "You told me they'd use it against Russian civilians. Innocent people. Is that true?"

Bolshevik nodded. “Without a doubt. There is a program in place. I will tell you the name. Look it up. Find out what they are planning.”

Ben stared into Bolshevik’s eyes. Was this man telling him the truth? A Russian-born American, a man who’d spent his career building secrets and lies for the US government?

Ben himself was an American, but he knew what that statement truly meant. He didn't agree with everything his country did, nor did he fully trust the ways in which they did it, but at the end of the day, he believed they were the good guys.

God, I hope I’m not wrong.

Ben sighed again. "Okay, fine." He put his hands down. The Desert Eagle was tucked into his pants once again, and none of the soldiers had seen it. Or they didn't care. They wouldn't have to do anything but pull a single finger backward, and Ben would be shot off the face of the earth.

He slowly, meticulously, slid the backpack off his shoulder. “I’m just… just getting the man’s data, alright?”

The soldier in front of Ben nodded. “No funny business.”

"Trust me, man, nothing about this is funny."

Ben carefully unzipped the pack, retrieved the laptop, then stood up once again. “See? Just a computer. Nothing to it.”

He handed the laptop to Bolshevik, who had taken another single step, this time toward the nearest soldier on his right.

“Bolshevik,” Ben said quietly. The man turned to face him, gripping the laptop with his uninjured hand. “For what it’s worth, I believe you.”

Bolshevik nodded quietly. He looked at all four of the American soldiers slowly, examining them. Then he turned to Ben, looked him in the eye, and stuck out his right hand. The same hand that hung from his wounded shoulder.

Ben watched his face. He winced, but Bolshevik held the pain in. Ben reached out and shook his hand gently.

Bolshevik nodded. "Phoenix," he said. He was turned away from the soldiers so that none could hear or read his lips.

“What?” Ben asked.

“Phoenix. Project Phoenix. My company is called —“

“Now, Bolshevik,” the corporal said.

Ben missed Bolshevik’s last word. The name of his company. But he’d told him the project. Project Phoenix, he’d said. His work. His life’s mission.

Ben was about to help Bolshevik toward the soldiers when Bolshevik, unbelievably, yanked his arm from Ben’s grasp.

“What —“

“Thank you, Harvey,” Bolshevik said.

And then he flung himself off the cliff.

Ben turned, horrified, and watched Bolshevik sailing through the air, the laptop still clenched between his fingers.

The soldiers rushed forward, and Ben sensed the corporal now on his left side.

The laptop hit a rock, immediately smashing into a thousand pieces. The bulk of the device flopped down a few more banks and landed directly in the center of the river.

Bolshevik hit once, bouncing a single time with a sickening crunch, and didn’t move again.

Ben saw the bleeding, broken man from two-hundred feet above, and no longer felt cold.

Instead, he felt empty.

EPILOGUE

“HOW YOU FEELING?” Julie asked, rubbing Ben’s shoulders.

“Weird. Cold, but not really. Like I just watched someone die.”

“You did just watch someone die.”

“No, it was… different than that. I watched him kill himself.”

Ben took another sip of coffee. Black, but with a substantial spike of bourbon that Julie had poured in. The fire was raging; he was under a blanket on their couch, and yet he felt the tingling sensation of his limbs straining against the warmth as if they had resigned themselves to their fate of being forever cold.

Like Bolshevik.

“He shot at you, too, Ben. The man was probably deranged.”

“He seemed fine to me. He was scared.”

“Doesn’t make shooting at you the right course of action.”

Ben turned to face her. “What was the right course of action? This guy dedicated his life to a system that he knew was broken. A system that he eventually discovered would steal his work and use it against him — against innocent people.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I believe him, Jules. He tried telling me everything once he trusted me. He tried explaining it, but he knew he was running out of time."

Julie shook her head. Ben knew she was trying to process it, just as he was, but she was also — just as he was — trying to make sense of the broader ramifications. "Did they get anything from the computer?"

Ben shrugged. “No idea. Two of the Army guys went down there to try to fish it out of the river, but the hard drive would have been completely busted before that.”

“Still, they can probably extract some data from it.”

“Some, sure.”

“You think they’ll give it back to his company?”

Ben shrugged again. “That’s what I don’t know. Probably — I mean the guy’s company is a private contractor, working directly for the government. They probably called it in when they found out Bolshevik went rogue. The Army was dispatched because they’re the company’s security team.”

“Right. So they’ll probably still end up with the tech.”

“Probably.”

“And we just need to figure out if that’s a good thing or not.”

Ben frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Julie sipped her own glass of wine. He wondered if it was the same one she’d been drinking from before. They were once again in the cabin’s living room, having closed off the hallway to the newer, more corporate-feeling CSO headquarters attached to the cabin.

After his excursion, Ben had raced home, no longer under the scrutiny from the soldiers, who were now fully consumed by the idea of getting Bolshevik’s body and belongings back to whatever base they’d come from.

Julie and Ben had spent the next hour warming up by the stove and fireplace, debriefing what had happened.

"I mean, we need to decide for ourselves if we should help the Army or not."

“How would we help them?”

“By figuring out what this Phoenix project is, and whether or not it was in the government’s best interest to hack into Bolshevik’s plane and bring it down.”

“Why… is that our decision to make?”

Ben wanted to be done with this. He wanted to warm up, drink his coffee, and think about tomorrow’s project: improving his now-famous chili recipe. Reggie and Mrs. E would be in town tomorrow evening, and he was hoping to up his chili game before then.

He wanted nothing more to do with the Army, the plane crash, and Bolshevik’s company, whoever it was.

“Ben,” Julie said, her voice soft. “In the woods, last time we talked?”

“Yeah?”

“I had you do something, remember?”

Ben’s eyes widened. “No…”

“Yes, Ben. I had you upload the files. Make a copy of the hard drive and send it via satellite to the CSO computers.”

“You… have it?”

“All of it,” Julie said. “That’s what I’m talking about, Ben. The Army and Bolshevik’s company may not have all of what he was working on, but we do. We have all of it — the whole hard drive was copied and uploaded while you were getting chased around the park.”

“So, we can see what he was doing. What the company was really up to?”

“I’m hoping so. Mrs. E’s going to take a look with me tomorrow night, and we can then make a better plan. If we decide to turn it over to the government, great.”

“If not?”

“If not, then we’ll do what we always do: make sure things that need to remain hidden stay that way. We’ll make sure things that are never supposed to see the light of day stay in their vault.”

Ben let out a deep breath, then nodded. Good. He liked that.

He was finally starting to warm up, and Julie — once again — had figured out exactly what it was that would make him feel better.

He could feel better about Bolshevik's death, knowing that it wasn't for nothing. The CSO could decide for themselves what about the man's project needed to be turned over to his old company.

And they could decide what about Project Phoenix they would keep for themselves.

A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

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THE NAPOLEON JOB

PREVIEW CHAPTERS

NAPOLEON

7:18 PM | December 1, 1805

Austerlitz, Austria

“Gentlemen,” he began. “Do mind this hill. There will be a battle upon it, and each of you shall have your place.”

He looked up from the great wood table at his marshals. They each nodded curtly. He pushed his lips together in a thin line. A battlefield smile; the best they could hope for from their Grand Commandant. He had led them this far, he had confidence he would lead them through the next storm.

And there was always a storm. There was always another battle, another fight. His marshals, the best of them at least, understood this. There was, for Napoleon’s France, no ‘ultimate goal.’ If dominating the entirety of the western world was accomplished, it would only be an accidental bonus of the true goal: the journey of conquering.

He had served as emperor of the French for about a year now, but his track record of victory had already begun to precede him. His men were proud, yet humble. Confident but loyal to their leader.

The victory would play out just as he had strategized; he was sure of it. It was not for his sake then that this meeting was taking place, but for his marshals. They needed to be as true to the plan as he; they needed to understand the risks involved and maneuver accordingly.

He turned to the man standing at his right. His most trusted aide. “Have we the numbers we were hoping for?”

The man nodded. “Yes, Commander. 75,000, prepared for battle. Fully stocked and well-fed.”

Napoleon nodded. They were not the numbers he had been hoping for, but it had been a year since the French Army had crossed the Rhine with his 200,000 troops. They had expanded their territory greatly, leaving detachments around Austria and the scattered nations surrounding. To prepare for the new Russian threat, Napoleon had navigated to this location, near the hill upon which his next victory lay.

“And they have no knowledge of our true capabilities?”

The man shook his head. “My scouts have returned with news that, to the best of their knowledge, the Allied commanders have not changed their perspective. They believe we are hurt, still limping from our retreat.”

Napoleon nodded once again, his brow furrowing. It was a calculated retreat, pulling back to feign a weakness, one that he had sold well, thanks to his hard-earned political talents of acting and subterfuge. He never liked to pull back from an easy victory, but he knew that the greater war was far more important to France’s success than a single battle.

He had also purposefully weakened the right front of his army, hoping to invite the Allies to attack at that point on Pratzen Hill, hopefully cutting off Napoleon’s communication line with Vienna. Instead, he had moved the center and core of his army to a position adjacent to the hill, hidden and out of sight.

“Commander,” another voice from across the table said. “We are to attack after they reach Pratzen Hill, yes?”

He nodded. He had already explained this.

“And if we fail… if we lose Pratzen Hill --“

“The hill is not the victory, but merely the battleground,” he snapped. “We feign a weakness to invite an incursion where we want it. That is the point. Pratzen Hill will be taken by the enemy, but I assure you, men, it will later be retaken by us.”

There were murmurs around the table. He knew they were skeptical. It was hard not to be. They were tired, overworked, fearful of the inevitable failure. Every army failed — that was historical fact. At some point, Napoleon’s march would come to an end.

But not yet. Not today, not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

He understood not only his strategy and the strategies of his opponents — he knew his opponents themselves. He knew their inner thoughts, their desires, their histories and their understandings of the battlefield. He knew what they knew, and that was why he knew his strategy would work.

He turned to Legrand, whose forces would be bearing the brunt of the Allied attack tomorrow at first light. “General,” he said, “are your men prepared?”

“Of course, Commandant,” Legrand answered without hesitation. “They understand the precarious situation they will put the rest of the Army in if they fail. And they will not. We will hold the flank.”

Napoleon moved on to the rest of his marshals in attendance. Davout’s Third Corps would be marching from Vienna, but he trusted this man more than the others, and he knew Davout would arrive on time. When he finished discussing final plans and tactical changes, he retired and returned to his private tent.

There, he took stock of himself. He was weary, but excited. Nervous, but cautiously prepared. He was not shaking, he was not unsteady.

He took in a deep breath and prepared his letter to Josephine. Perhaps it would be his last, though he suspected it would be one of many more to be penned by his hand.

He sat at the desk and gathered his thoughts. In staring down at the blank page, he noticed the rigid body of the saber tucked against the side of the tent and the desk.

Napoleon stood and reached for it, bringing it close. In the absence of most of his worldly possessions, this singular item had given him peace and comfort when confusion and chaos began to reign supreme.

He pulled it from its sheath, admiring the bluish-gold steel, the elaborate markings on it, and the sheer craftsmanship of it all. He let his fingers fall over the five embossed roses on the hilt, knowing the power they held within. It was a truly remarkable piece, and though it had not been originally intended for battle, he had worn it during raids and skirmishes, and he planned to do so again tomorrow.

It was his sword, and it was the one most cherished by the great commander.

BILLY

10:26 AM | March 7, 2021

Imrali, Turkey

The prisoner stood on the edge of the cliff looking out over the water. It was a sheer two-hundred-foot drop to the roiling, churning waters below, but it wasn’t even a straight shot. Jagged boulders and edges jutted out from the side of the cliff, ensuring that anyone unfortunate enough to fall — or anyone insane enough to jump — would have a rough way down.

Billy Beckham smiled. It reminded him of the carnival games he used to try to win as a child. His parents would take him once a year, and he would save his allowance for months so he would have enough to play all of the games. Even though his father told him over and over again that they were all rigged — that they were designed to be either impossible or extremely difficult to win — Billy couldn’t help it. He was infatuated by the way the ball bounced around as it fell through the vertical shaft on its way to the bottom. The tiny rubberized metal sphere would bounce and dance around and over the wooden ledges, eventually finding its way into one of the six chambers at the bottom of the glass-front case. One of the chambers would offer a prize, the others nothing.

He had never won. His ball somehow always found a way in one of the outside chambers.

Billy took a step backward and turned around, imagining that the carnival game reference was a metaphor for his life. I never won. Never won nothing at all.

He took a deep breath, wondering if it would be better to just jump off and end it all right then and there. Surely it would be quicker. Surely he would beat the twenty-nine years of the thirty-year sentence he had still facing him.

An American by birth, William Beckham had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when traveling through Turkey and had ended up with a bag of drugs on his person.

Okay, so he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and made a few wrong decisions.

He had claimed to not know where the drugs had come from, but he was missing that crucial element when it came time to explain himself: an alibi.

He had merely wanted to have a good time his last night in Istanbul. The friends he had met — or at least the people he had been calling friends — had finally taken him to a secret spot, where he had been promised an incredible time.

The party had been fun enough, but at some point someone had slipped something into his drink. He awoke the next morning, already locked up and behind bars.

He hadn’t had much money before the trip, and twenty-eight-year-old Billy had not known any lawyers. As such, he had been at the whim and mercy of the Turkish judicial system, which had decided to make an example of him. He bounced around the system for a year, expecting to be held back and eventually released, made a mockery of, held out to the western world in the tabloids as an example of white privilege. He would, after much grief, head home.

Unfortunately, Turkey was not interested in sending him home. He had been handed a sentence that had shocked him.

Thirty years without bail.

It wasn’t the first time an American had gone astray overseas and ended up in another country’s prison system, but it was one of the few times that the country’s court system had gone the extra mile to deliver an unnecessarily cruel sentence. He had wondered if it was even real — if he had accidentally, somehow, pissed off the wrong person. But he’d had no lawyer or money to hire an investigator.

If he had been sent to Imrali because of someone’s nefarious reasons, those reasons were still a mystery to him.

His hands were un-cuffed, his legs free, and he lifted his eyes up from the rocky earth and stared back down the hill toward the Imrali island prison in the distance. There was a small courtyard in the center of the complex, but this was the first time Billy had been outside the prison walls since his arrest, and certainly the first time he’d been outside without walls around him or shackles on his hands and feet.

He looked toward the cloudy sky, trying to find the pinpoint of light that represented the sun, hidden behind folds of fluffy water. He thought he saw it, then tried to use that information to determine what time of day it was. The trouble was, he couldn’t remember if he had to calculate for how far they were from the equator or not, and if that were the case, he had no idea what that meant for the calculation…

“Billy! Over here!” the voice had come from a man, Taavi, whom he had befriended over the past year. He didn’t particularly like the man, and he felt the feeling was mutual, which was ironic, as he had explained to Billy early on that his name meant ‘adored.’ Still, Taavi was the only person he’d met so far who spoke English. Billy had not yet picked up enough Turkish to get by, but thankfully everything in the prison was scheduled and regimented. He didn’t need to learn Turkish to stay alive here — if he wanted, he didn’t need to think or speak or even wonder anything at all.

He walked toward Taavi’s voice, joining him and three other prisoners who had been taken out of their cell block earlier. They had been put in handcuffs, then marched out of the back door and toward these cliffs at the edge of the island, where the cuffs had been removed. No one had been told what was happening, but there had been enough armed guards marching next to them the whole time that Billy knew this was some sort of planned exercise. More than likely the Turkish government had told the guards to give them all a bit more sunshine and exercise, so they were begrudgingly letting them out to play for an hour or so.

He looked at the guards now, recognizing for the first time that they weren’t all wearing the uniform of the prison’s main security force — black and khaki, with a tiny yellow logo emblazoned somewhere on it. Some of the new guards wore black pants with tight black shirts. Their weapons seemed different, as well, though Billy had no idea why.

Billy didn’t waste much energy worrying about it. Truth told, he probably wouldn’t have needed a guard watching him twenty-four hours a day. They were on a remote island off the coast of Turkey, and the only thing here on Imrali was the prison itself — no homes, no roads, no other inhabitants at all. They were ten miles of open water from the nearest shore. A boat came twice a week to drop off supplies and mail for the inmates, but that was it.

He had yet to receive a letter from anyone back home. His parents had passed away five years earlier, his mother right after father, from early onset cancer, though he couldn’t remember what type. He remembered not feeling terribly sad when that had happened, though he did wish his father were still around. It would be nice to talk to the old man, to ask him about the carnivals and the relatively safe, fun times they had when Billy was just a boy.

Somewhere along the line his old man had checked out from parenting, or from life in general, either because his job at the power plant had gotten too busy, or he had found out about his cancer diagnosis, or something else altogether. Billy never knew. His mother did her best, but she ruled with an iron fist, and he had very little interest in softening his heart for the hardest woman he had ever known.

He was now completely alone in this world, and he probably would be until he died. It was a fact he had come to accept. As crazy as it had seemed before his sentencing, he wondered if it was all that bad.

Free food, free entertainment, free everything. For thirty years.

Sure, most of it was crap — the ‘fresh’ food was ten minutes away from going rotten and the only entertainment was the monthly movie they would allow the prisoners to see, but inevitably it was a movie from America that he had already seen fifteen years ago. Perhaps he could get into chess — there were prisoners who spent hours each day across from each other, a board between them.

He walked over to where Ramon was standing, falling in line next to the other four prisoners. The guards circled them, each brandishing an assault rifle but with the point of it aimed down toward the ground.

“Any idea what’s going on?” he asked.

Taavi shook his head. “Exercise?”

Billy smiled. “Standing in line next to you isn’t much exercise, friend.”

Taavi scowled, but didn’t respond.

The guard in front of the line began barking orders in Turkish. Billy had no idea what any of the words were, but he recognized his prisoner number being called and looked up at the man. The man repeated the number, staring straight into Billy’s eyes.

Billy heard the slight lilt at the end of the string of numbers, and realized it had been a question. He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.” He recited his prisoner number for good measure and the guard nodded and continued down the line, checking that he had the right people in front of him.

Billy caught more movement from the corner of his eye and noticed another man walking toward them. He was not a prisoner, nor was he a guard or someone Billy recognized. He was not wearing the uniform of a guard — either the standard one of Imrali or one matching these new uniforms. Instead, he wore a suit — navy with dark pants and fancy leather shoes. An absurd choice, considering the weather today, but Billy had a feeling this man did most of his work indoors.

The newcomer walked briskly toward the group, not looking up or stopping until he was standing directly next to the guard who had checked off his list.

He didn’t speak, and when the guard finished with his list and verified that all five prisoners were accounted for, Billy watched the new guy reach into his pocket and pull out a small, round object. It was about the size of a postage stamp. He held it out in front of him, examined it, and then looked around, finally passing the thing to the guard. The guard did the same thing, then turned and asked a question to the man in Turkish.

“What did he just ask?” Billy asked under his breath.

Taavi answered. “Is the test ready?”

Billy suddenly felt weak at the knees. A test? What sort of test? And why all the formality? If these guys were testing some sort of new vaccine, some new medication — something he knew the Turkish government allowed to be tested on prisoners — they would have simply been brought into one of the prison labs or another space inside Imrali.

What test needed to be done way out here, on the cliffs?

SAUL

7:12 PM | March 9, 2021

Hever Castle, Kent, England

The room was lit by dozens of tiny sconces on the walls, their fronts frosted plastic hiding fake candles. Three chandeliers — also boasting fake candles that almost looked real if the eye didn’t dwell — hung from above. The almost-dim, mysterious effect was completed by off-white LED track lights running down the length of the space in three neat and tidy rows to match the rows of chairs that had been set out.

The effect was remarkably accurate. The space looked and felt just like a Tudor castle, and had been decorated with items and artwork that reflected the period. There was even an axe-wielding knight’s armor in the corner, on a hardwood circular pedestal.

Saul Brodeur looked around quickly, not actually moving his head but simply flicking his eyes left to right in a constant one-two motion, taking everything in as well as checking for signs of anything new. Any new entrants to the room, anything that had not been in his peripheral gaze the moment before.

One-two. Left, right.

It was a practiced motion, one he repeated involuntarily, listening forward but watching all around him the entire time.

The place was well-constructed, built to the highest standards and kept healthy and structurally sound over the years. As well it should — it was, in fact, a Tudor castle. Anne Boleyn had spent her childhood there after her father had inherited it in 1505, but original construction had begun over two-hundred years earlier. It had eventually fallen into the care of William Astor, who sold it to Broadland Properties Limited, who had set it up as a hotel, meeting space, and auction house.

While the garish additions such as the LED track lights and the flickering fake candles behind each of the sconces were a nice touch, he would have preferred the original, dimly lit and damp interior of the castle. Almost none of them were as bright, warm, and inviting as the movies made them look. He had always loved castles, the mystery and intrigue and countless stories the walls could tell, if only they could talk.

And while this place was certainly no bastardization of a castle — it was real, after all — he would have preferred a bit less interior design.

At the same time, he understood that he was not the target clientele for this sort of event. He, instead, was a soldier in a room of civilians. A prophet in a room full of laypersons. A hardened steel weapon in a room full of soft, hollow caricatures.

The man to his left grunted, the woman next to him breathing in short, steady rhythmic breaths. He was in tune to each of the individuals around him, analyzing but not focusing on each of their tics and quirks. He needed to know them, he needed to understand any potential threat from any potential direction.

All the while, his entire active focus was directly in front of him. A woman, seated in the third row from the front, and in front of her, on the podium. The man there spoke rapidly down toward the audience, a trained professional. He spoke the commands and requests with a practiced finesse.

“Do I have one-point-seven-five, one-point-seven-five, asking again do I have one point —“

He paused for a moment, noticing the paddle that had been raised.

Saul looked at the sign that had just lifted to his right as well. He flicked his eyes there and then back up at the auctioneer behind his lectern.

“One-point-seven-five! We have one-point-seven-five, wonderful. Do we have two million? Two million pounds for the fine watercolor-on-canvas. Two million, asking for two million. Do we have two million? Going once…”

The auctioneer waited a few more seconds, asked again, and then smacked this tiny gavel on the top of the lectern. “Sold for one-point-seven-five million! One-point-seven-five pounds for the watercolor, to a Mr. Edgar Rauthson of Lancaster. Sir, your painting will be delivered by method of transportation of your choosing, if you would just find our team in the Hall of Exhibits after the auction closes.”

Saul watched as Mr. Rauthson nodded his approval, and the auctioneer immediately continued. From the auctioneer’s left, Saul saw two tuxedo-wearing auction house employees wheeling out a large cart, upon which was a velvet blanket covering a small, shallow object. He swallowed and straightened his back, feeling the anticipation and excitement. This is it, he thought. The object I have been waiting for.

The auctioneer began his prepared speech. “Next up, we have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: for the first time in many decades, one of the world’s most famous swords — and certainly the world’s most valuable sword — is up for auction by a private collector who has been lending the sword to the Museé de l’Armée in Paris. This sword, known as the Sword of Austerlitz, rode on Napoleon Bonaparte’s side into battle in 1805, and in many skirmishes after. The most famous Battle of the Three Emperors took place near Vienna in the winter of 1805, and it was this sword that was said to calm Napoleon’s nerves.”

He saw that people around the room were excited, just as he was. He also knew that no one, save for the woman in the third row, was prepared to bid high enough to actually win the thing. For them, this would be nothing more than entertainment — a sideshow to lend legitimacy to the main attraction.

For him, however, this was the main attraction. This was the entire reason for his attendance. The entire reason for his charade, for his donning the uncomfortable clothing of the rich and feigning ties to ancient lords and kingdoms in order to gain entrance. He had clinked his glasses against those of modern-day duchesses and dukes, and he had rubbed elbows with London’s elite. It was sickening, but was part of the job.

Now he had the opportunity to end this phase of the project and begin the next. He said a silent prayer that this phase would end swiftly and smoothly, tonight, without needing to extend into tomorrow.

He was prepared to offer ninety-five million pounds in order to acquire the object of his employer’s desire, but not a pound more. Another few million and alarm bells would be set off in the tabloids. His mysterious and discrete employer would receive unwanted and unwarranted press attention for outbidding arguably the sword’s rightful owner.

He stared at the back of the head of the woman in the third row. He had chosen this position carefully, jostling for this particular chair after the hors d’oeuvres had been served and the drinks emptied and refilled a final time. By placing himself directly behind her, she would have to turn fully around in order to see who exactly she was up against. It was a small yet important power-play.

The bidding began. The auctioneer held up the gavel and cleared his throat after his short presentation. “And now, the bidding shall begin. We will start with the highest opening price of the evening, the previous sale price of the sword, in today’s dollars, that it was last sold for. Bidding shall begin at fifty-million pounds.”

There were gasps and small utterances around the room, and the man smiled. This was all expected, this was all part of the game. The auction house would take their cut, the castle that had been rented and decorated for the occasion would receive their cut as well, the new owner of the sword would be able to take their prized possession back into whatever great hall would become its home for the next few decades, until a new collector with even deeper pockets came calling.

The woman’s paddle rose. The man saw the auctioneer give her a slight nod. It was all as expected. “We have fifty-million pounds from Miss Delacruz.”

Miss Delacruz. He smiled. It was an alias, a name meant to throw off anyone not paying close attention.

But anyone in this room would absolutely be paying close attention. Everyone here knew who she really was. Josephine Campbell. Everyone here knew about the family ties to Napoleon. Miss Delacruz-Josephine-Campbell was purchasing a birthday gift, something her unsuspecting husband would cherish above most things. It was an elaborate gift, but it was nothing to a family with riches such as theirs.

“We have fifty-million, do we have sixty-five million? Asking sixty-five million pounds for the sword carried by Napoleon Bonaparte, his prized —“

Saul raised his paddle and the auctioneer saw his number. He frowned, for a moment not understanding. Then he cleared his throat once again and nodded, curtly.

“Indeed. We have a bid for sixty-five million, from a Mr. Lacroix, who is…” he read the card on the lectern. “…Visiting us from the north.” It was another alias, but this one was sound. Saul knew it was vetted, planned and tested against scrutiny. No one here would know his actual name and employer, and no one here would know his actual motives.

The man to his left shifted and grunted again, and the woman next to him — the man’s mistress, Saul knew — began to breathe a bit quicker. This would be the most exciting thing they had seen all weekend. What a disgusting charade.

“Sixty-five million to Mr. Lacroix, do we have seventy-five —“

The woman raised her paddle once again, a bit higher this time. More confident. Saul was not concerned — there was always a backup plan.

As soon as the auctioneer spoke, Saul raised his own paddle once again and spoke. “Ninety-five million,” he said.

The auctioneer’s eyes widened. “Ninety-five million pounds, we have ninety-five million from Mr. Lacroix. Ninety-five million for the Sword of Austerlitz. Do we —“

The woman raised her paddle, this time standing up from her chair. She turned around slowly, swinging her head back and forth and trying to find the ‘Mr. Lacroix’ in the audience. She didn’t know who it was she had been bidding against, nor would she recognize him from anywhere, but her eyes did seem to linger on his own for a moment before she turned back around the auctioneer.

She took a breath and spoke softly. “One-hundred twenty-five million.” She stood there for a second, letting it sink in for the audience around her, then sat down in her chair.

The auctioneer audibly gasped. “One — one-hundred twenty-five million pounds,” he whispered, his neck bent into the microphone. “Miss Delacruz bids one-hundred twenty-five million pounds for the Sword of Austerlitz, the prized possession of Napoleon Bonaparte. Do we have another bid? Asking one-hundred fifty-million?”

The man grinned from the side of his mouth, his eyes narrowing as he looked over the throngs of rich and elite art collectors. A few were looking back at him, the shock registered plainly on their faces, but he didn’t pay them any attention. He kept his eyes straight, looking at the back of the woman’s head.

She was beautiful, petite and looking quite a bit younger than he had imagined, perhaps in her mid-forties. Her hair was pulled back tightly and whipped up into a decorative shape atop her head, no doubt the cause of much concern for whoever she had paid to do it.

The auctioneer slammed the gavel down and cheers erupted from the audience. Their fair damsel had won the day against the villainous tyrant who had come to swoop her husband’s prize out from underneath her.

It was a shame, really. Saul did not want to extend this night any longer — he had a fine bottle of wine and a hot bath waiting for him back at the hotel room — but this was the job. She had made her choice, and while surprised, he was not shaken.

The game would move to the next phase, and then it would end. There was no other option. He would win, just as he always did.

The woman could enjoy her victory for the moment. In another moment soon to come, the sword would finally be his.

###

Want to continue the fun? Continue reading the latest book in the Harvey Bennett Thrillers series, The Napoleon Job, today!

THE ENIGMA STRAIN

PREVIEW CHAPTERS

PROLOGUE

ALEXEI EXPEDITION

Northwest Territory, Canada

1704

The sound of another exploding tree caused Nikolai Alexei to jump.

He heard the men behind him snicker, but he did not care to address them. It was not worth his time, and besides, it was poor leadership to acknowledge such pettiness. His father had explained the odd occurrence to him on a wolf-hunting trip when he was a boy; the frozen tree sap inside the trunks of the pines would expand, causing the bark and wood to explode. He had often lain awake at night, counting the rippling explosions as they worked their way through the wooded area around their cabin. He knew the sound well, but it still took him by surprise when it happened, even now.

He grumbled to himself and marched onward through the knee-deep snow.

He enjoyed this land. It reminded him of home; of the countless miles of deep black forest, filled with the same animals he used to hunt, the same trees he used to climb, and the same bitter cold he used to long for with fresh blankets of snow thick enough to halt a horse. He remembered the smells, too—the ripe evergreens and the sheer emptiness of the air. He was more comfortable in the woods than any of his men, with the possible exception of Lev.

And yet their laughter frustrated him. It was not a sign of insubordination as much as it was a sign of their laziness. For three months they had made their trek over mountains and across valleys so high and so deep he had thought they would not make it to the other side with their entire crew intact. They had crossed tundra, plateaus, and wetlands, all without losing a man. Their hunting excursions were always successful, and most nights ended around a large bonfire with a deer roasting on a spit. Breakfast was hot soup, and they snacked on smoked meats throughout the day.

Nikolai had to admit that so far it was one of the more successful expeditions he had been on, and he knew God was smiling on them in this new land. But he knew also that it made them weak; it made them soft. They had grown fat and sluggish, covering less ground each day than the day before. Their energy and excitement had been replaced with a restlessness that had turned their stories and poems around the fire into passionless songs.

Without glancing back, Nikolai called out behind him. “Doctor?”

A short, thin man struggled through the snow but Nikolai did not slow his pace. “We will stop and make camp when we next find a clearing. The river is to the north, and we can fish there for as long as we like.”

“Split the men into crews of two and three,” Nikolai said, “and I will send them out in the morning to chart the area. These Cossacks will find pleasure in a change of scenery, and I myself will enjoy an excursion of a more solitary nature.”

Nikolai was a man of his word; a man of integrity. He had promised the Tsar a map of the deep terrain of North America, and he intended to deliver it. His expedition had grown mundane, and it was time to bring it back to life.

“So you will wander alone through these parts?” the doctor asked.

Nikolai laughed. “I will take care to not lose myself in the fog, if that is what you are asking. Sometimes a man must wander, my friend,” he said. “But rest assured, we will gather together after three days.”

The doctor nodded and fell in line behind his leader. Nikolai was uncertain if this plan of his would do more good than it would endanger them all, but it was a risk he was willing to take. They had found nothing useful thus far; nothing the motherland would be inclined to return to claim. Cartography was their stated manifest, but he was under no false pretenses. By moving outward in smaller groups, the expedition could cover more territory and more ground than by moving in a single line.

So far, they had charted the great river to their north all the way from the sea, but they knew that every river began somewhere. Whether it was a lake amid the mountain peaks or from tributaries caused by glacial melt, he did not know.

And he did not care.

Nikolai Alexei was here for one reason, and one reason alone. His homeland sought riches, as did his men. All men sought more than what God had initially blessed them with. It was a man’s duty to find what he was owed in this life, with all the more blessings to be bestowed upon him in the afterlife.

This new land was not known for its riches, but only a fool would think the Spanish had been capable of taming it when they came. This land was made for Russians. Only they understood it. This great unknown that had attracted Nikolai was an opportunity that he was not going to let pass.

PROLOGUE

ALEXEI EXPEDITION

Northwest Territory, Canada

1704

When the first star appeared in the heavens above them, the men made camp, throwing oilskins over tent poles in a circle by the river bank.

They were slow, Nikolai noted. After the last few days’ effort it did not surprise him, but it did not please him much either. It took over an hour to set up the ten tents and build a fire, but no more than ten minutes for the men to begin huddling around it.

Soon the moon rose, nearly full. A meal was prepared, a roasted deer and herb soup, and the men began singing.

But Nikolai had had enough. He broke away from the camp and lifted the moose skin hood up and over his head. This Siberian Yupik coat was one of the best trades he had made. The bitter cold tried to bite into his flesh, and the gentle wind threatened to chill his core, but he didn’t notice. He made for a smaller clearing to the south that he had seen earlier, one with a rock outcropping against a higher mountain cliff. The river they were following had likely cut down into this valley they were currently in, and if he was lucky, it had left some interesting formations for him.

He reached the clearing and scared away a small beaver that would make a fine pelt when it reached adulthood, and stepped out into the open grassy area to get a good look at the outcropping. It appeared that the boulders were precariously situated around a hole near the ground, beckoning him closer. As he approached, he could see even in this failing light that what he had found was an opening to a small cave.

He had no light with him, but he ducked inside anyway. It was useless. He could explore little with just hands and arms.

Tomorrow, he would head here first thing, bring a torch and a few extra men. This was the type of cave that would have made a perfect shelter for one of the native tribes that might call this place home. So far, they had not encountered any such people, but he had no way of knowing if these indigenous tribes he had heard tell of lived along these rivers or not.

A light appeared behind him, flickering and orange. He could almost feel the heat of the torch as it grew brighter.

“Nikolai?” A voice said, softly. “Is that you?”

It was the doctor’s voice, a little unsure.

“Yes, doctor,” Nikolai said. He felt the excitement within him growing. “Bring the light! I would very much like to have a look at this place.”

The doctor ’joined him and lifted the flaming torch up in front of them.

Scrawled upon the walls were dozens of paintings articulating dancing men and women around fires, hunting trips, and deaths.

So many deaths.

One particularly macabre image depicted a man and woman lying sideways next to each another, their arms crossed as in a representation of death. Six children were drawn below them haphazardly as if added at different times in the past.

Nikolai and the doctor gazed at the drawings, trying to decipher their meaning. Sections of paintings had been scratched out or painted over as if the original author had changed the story halfway through.

“I don’t understand. Do you, sir?”

Nikolai didn’t respond. He took the torch from the other man’s hand and continued on deeper into the cave. A few feet past the first wall, the ceiling grew higher, and he drew himself up to his full height. More cave paintings decorated the walls to his left and right, and arrows were drawn near the floor. Farther on, and the small cavern twisted to the left and ended in a rounded chamber.

He swung the torch around this room, at first looking for a continuation of the path he was on. Finding none, he held the torch lower. Stacks of bones and skulls lay atop one another, of all shapes and sizes. Men, women, and children all lay close together, though arranged into what he assumed must have been families.

In front of these, he found baskets made from sinewy animal skins, with lids fashioned from skin and bones. The leatherwork was remarkable and he reached down to grab one. He examined it closely, handing the light to the doctor. Stamped into the sides and top of the basket were designs and symbols that he could not interpret. They swirled around the edges, leaving no section of leather untouched.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. He twisted the top of the basket, finding the lid secured tightly, either by design or from years of rest. He gave the lid a harder twist and felt a pop.

The top of the basket came off, sending dust shooting through the air. He waved it away and dropped the lid to the ground.

He saw what was inside, and only then realized how heavy the basket was. He turned the basket upside down, emptying its contents out onto the cave floor. Hundreds of silver coins bounced on the dirt and rolled around.

“For the glory of...” the doctor said, his voice hoarse.

“I imagine this is the sort of thing we have come here for,” Nikolai said. He scooped up a handful of the silver coins and held them up to the light. “Do you recognize these?”

“No. I have never seen such a design.”

Upon the surface of each coin was a remarkably intricate design; either hand carved or stamped. It featured the bust of a native man, and Nikolai could even see the outline of a frown on his face. He was surrounded by what looked like fire, each wisp carefully measured and drawn.

“From the local population?” the doctor asked.

Nikolai shook his head. “No. The people here use the shells of clams as their currency, and most simply trade goods instead. This… must be from somewhere else entirely.”

He flipped it over in his hand. The back was a reflection of the front, with the same native man frowning up at them. The fire, however, was markedly absent from this side. In its place were swirls and lines, which looked to be framing the man in the center.

“Fire on one side, wind on the other,” Nikolai whispered. “A dichotomy. What could it represent?”

“What is in the other baskets?” the doctor asked. He reached for another, trying at first to lift it from the ground. The basket slid a few inches toward him but stayed on the floor. “This one is considerably heavier, sir,” he said.

Nikolai reached down and twisted the lid free. He pushed the basket over with his right foot and watched as more silver coins tumbled out, identical to the one in his hand.

“Doctor,” he said, “bring the men. And bring the satchels as well. I count at least twenty of these baskets. What about you?”

The doctor shook his head excitedly. “Perhaps more.”

“If each contains even a portion of what is in these first two, it should be more than enough to justify a return home, do you think?”

The doctor smiled.

Nikolai wasn’t greedy, but he felt the stirrings of excitement growing in his chest. He would share this treasure with his men without question, but he needed to be sure of what he had found. He moved to the back of the cavern, now standing directly in front of the pile of skeletons. Reaching down, he lifted the lid on one of the baskets that had been placed close to the back.

More dust spread outward from the freshly opened container, and he blinked and waved it away with his free hand. He moved the torch down closer to the top of the basket and peered inside.

It was empty.

Odd. He reached for the basket nearest it and lifted its lid too.

Empty, save for a few small tools.

He considered calling the doctor back, but stopped himself. Why would they bury them here? he wondered. Why would they place a nearly empty basket next to a tribute to their deceased loved ones?

Had someone come before him? Someone who had found the baskets and emptied what they could? It did not make sense. Anyone who had explored this cave before them would certainly have emptied it of its treasures. They would not have left anything of value behind, and they would not have put the lids back on each basket. Thieves were anything but tidy.

Yet these two baskets were empty? He looked again, this time lifting one of the baskets to eye level and turning it. He could see the fine sinewy lines of the bottom, woven together and sewn shut. A few tools shifted at the bottom; what looked like a few small pipes, a bowl made of clay, and some other small sticks and rocks.

He coughed and realized for the first time how thick the dust in the air had become. Waving his hands, he backed away from the burial site. He coughed again, and this time, felt his lungs strain with the effort.

He turned away from the room and walked back upward until the cave ceiling closed in on him. He stepped out into the small clearing. Night had fallen completely, and thousands of stars peered down at him. He fell to his knees, trying to catch his breath. He sucked in air, forcing his lungs back open again. He struggled forward then rolled onto his back in the snow.

Nikolai struggled to calm his thinking and shut his eyes.

Breathe. He willed himself to breathe, in and out, until he felt the dust clearing from his system. His breathing became normal and controlled.

Just then, he heard the footsteps of his men running toward the clearing. He stood and brushed the snow from his back. He lifted his head and walked towards the edge of the woods. “Have you retrieved the satchels?”

“We have, sir. Where is the cave?” The voice was Lev’s, the huge bear of a man tumbling out of the woods first. His eyes were wide, and his breath was heavy, pouring out of his mouth and nose in great bursts. With scars on his face and body from a lifetime serving his homeland as a soldier and a woodsman, Nikolai enjoyed the man’s company and trusted his skill as a dedicated naturalist who was as knowledgeable as himself.

Nikolai gestured to the entrance. The group, fifteen men in all, trotted past and soon emerged three at a time with their satchels heavy. The endeavor took only thirty minutes, and they joined Nikolai in the clearing when they were finished. Only four of the baskets had been empty, including the two Nikolai had found.

If the men were jovial before, they were near ecstatic now. They knew their leader was a fair and honest man, and they would each get a good portion of the discovery. The primary cartographer among them, Roruk, began scratching some notes into a small notebook he had produced from his pocket. He measured the edges of the clearing, counting each step as he went and drawing them into this book.

When he finished, he nodded to Nikolai and they returned to the main camp.

“We leave tomorrow,” Nikolai said as the other men gathered around. “We have added too much weight to continue the expedition for now, and it will be a burden already with the water and food we must carry with us.”

Cheers erupted around the fire and the men broke into song. Nikolai wondered how men could be so merry without the aid of spirits and drink, but he did not stifle the mood.

He silently stepped away from the doctor and Lev and entered his tent. As the leader of this expedition, he shared it with no other man, and he enjoyed the privilege. He slipped off his coat and nestled onto his cot.

The noise around the campfire grew, but Nikolai could hardly hear it. He felt as if his mind was on fire, as if his head was being held above a pot of boiling water. He started to sweat, and his hands and arms began to itch. Nikolai struggled to stifle the burning sensation, and considered calling out for the doctor’s aid. Before he could, however, he drifted into a welcome and deep sleep.

PROLOGUE

ALEXEI EXPEDITION

Northwest Territory, Canada

1704

Nikolai awoke the next morning to an odd sound.

Silence.

Pure, pristine winter silence. The quiet he had not heard since before they had left Russia. The quiet of his youth. Intense and intimidating. Nikolai would normally have welcomed it with a sharp sniff and a deep, satisfying breath, but this morning should not have been so quiet. An expedition with a group of almost thirty men guaranteed that every moment would be filled with some racket or another.

He threw the blankets off and stood. His head brushed the top pole of his tent as he opened the flaps. The fire had long since diminished, though wisps of cold ash rose with the gentle breeze, giving the appearance of smoke. The cluster of tents was situated in a circle around the fire, like spokes on a wagon wheel. His tent was the northernmost one, and separated from the others on each side by a few rows of trees. The tents were traditional, two vertical poles and a horizontal one resting atop them, with canvas stretched over it and staked into the ground at the corners. Each tent was immaculately placed, perfectly spaced, and set up to look exactly the same. His men were good men, Nikolai knew, and they cared deeply for these small details. But where were they? Why weren’t they preparing for their long journey home?

“Doctor? Lev?” He called out. He entered the nearest to find the two men still asleep beneath mounds of blankets and furs. He kicked at the doctor’s cot with an unlaced boot and asked again.

Hearing nothing in return, Nikolai pulled the blankets from the man’s head. The outermost blanket, a thick woven fabric, caught on something and he struggled to pull it down. After a more forceful tug, the blanket fell away to reveal the flesh of the doctor’s face eaten by a rash, red boils covering the surface of his skin .

Nikolai stumbled backward in disgust. A portion of the skin on the poor man’s forehead had stuck to the blanket, glued there by dried tissue and blood. The doctor’s eyes were open, but they were glazed over in death.

Instinctively, Nikolai clutched a hand to his mouth, struggling to hold back the vomit he felt rising in his throat. He pulled the blanket away completely, and found every inch of exposed skin on the doctor’s body covered in similar boils. He turned to Lev’s cot and made the same cursory examination.

More rash. More boils. More death.

Lev had also passed sometime during the night. Both men lay in their blankets, gazing up at the roof of the tent with blank eyes. Nikolai moved away. Closed the flap behind him. He looked down at his own hands and arms and noticed the same rash spread and thickened over most of his skin.

It was no longer itchy, but he felt the heat radiating from his skin on the places around his body that had been infected. Last night it was just his hands and arms. Now he felt it over his shoulders, neck, and upper back.

He checked two more tents, finding the same horrifying faces staring up at him in each. All of his men—all twenty-seven of them—were dead.

He was the sole survivor on an expedition that was now thousands of miles away from home, in one of the remotest places known to man.

Another tree cracked in the distance, and he knew that winter was about to set in for good.

12

YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK

Wyoming

Present Day

Harvey “Ben” Bennett eased the end of his rifle through the small space between the two bushes. He readjusted his left knee, moving a rock to the side of the bush he had crushed under his jeans. He held the rifle steady, using a stray branch as a platform. He watched the scene through the end of the scope.

The grizzly was busy rummaging through the food from an overturned cooler in the clearing. The female, small for her age but no less dangerous, grunted in delight as she discovered bits of bacon and pancakes from that morning’s breakfast.

The campers had long since fled, calling the main park line and complaining of a nuisance bear in the area. They were worried the bear would enter their camp and scare their kids, or worse.

Worried the bear would do what it was designed to do, Ben thought.

These types of campers were the worst kind. They left a mess, complained constantly, and ruined the sanctity of the ecosystem they’d stumbled into.

People from the cities treated camping like a luxury all-inclusive resort vacation. As if nature was designed specifically to please them. Ben hated them, almost as much as he hated this part of his job.

Nuisance animals, everything from raccoons to grizzlies, were a major turnoff for visitors and tourists, and therefore a problem. People had no idea how to handle animals looking for an easy meal and tended to freak out and assume they were under attack rather than calmly leave the scene and find a ranger.

Ben slid a round into the chamber and took aim. He closed each eye in turn, checking the distance and trying to gauge where the bear would move next. His left eye provided him a view of the attached manometer as he peered through the scope, allowing him to adjust for pressure without losing sight of the target. The aluminum barrel and American Walnut stock felt warm in his hands; alive. It was a comfortable weapon, and Ben was satisfied with the department’s purchase of these relocation tools.

He watched the bear’s thick neck muscles throb as she tore off a chunk of cardboard from the pile of smelly trash she’d discovered.

That was the other thing Ben hated about these people. They had no intention of learning anything—how to cook, what to eat in the woods, how to find food—they just wanted the comforts of home in a temporary excursion from reality.

The bear straightened its neck slightly, and Ben suddenly caught a glimpse of her left eye.

It glistened with age, a sheen of gray sparkling in the corner.

Mo.

Ben recognized the grizzly from the other times he’d encountered her down here. He had helped a few crews move her only months ago last summer, and again two years prior to that.

Ben sighed, and focused on the air leaving his lungs. He sucked in a quick, small breath, and held it in. He counted to five and pulled the trigger.

The soft popping sound took him by surprise—it always did. The juxtaposition of the man-made machine he’d just fired was severely out of place in what was supposed to be a pristine environment. Yet here he was adding to the mess and he was immediately remorseful.

The bear bristled and sat straighter, her back still to Ben. She turned slowly, her head lolling around as the tranquilizer began to take effect. Mo wouldn’t charge him. The projectile dart alone wouldn’t have alarmed the bear any more than if a small branch had fallen on her, but Ben knew the two milligrams of etorphine and acepromazine maleate compound the dart had just injected into the side of the bear would be more than enough to drop it.

Ben waited, not wanting to alert the bear. Angering or exciting an animal just before they fell asleep would cause undue stress, and it may even put them in danger. After a few more seconds, the bear let out a low moan as she stood on her hind feet. She turned in an unsteady circle, then fell back to the ground. The grizzly lay down on the damp leaves, and her head fell to the forest floor.

Ben waited a full minute before stepping out of his hiding spot. He pushed through the bushes, not bothering to spread the brambles apart and crossed the clearing and stood over the animal.

“Sorry about that, Mo,” he said softly. “Let’s get you back up north again.” He removed the small CO2 cartridge from under the barrel of the rifle and dropped it in his pocket. He crouched down and found the red feather-tipped dart protruding from the bear’s left flank.

The dart was expensive and reusable, and the department prohibited rangers from leaving them in the parks, even if they were damaged or destroyed.

Ben unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and rotated the knob at the top.

“This is Bennett,” he said into the device. “I’ve got Mo dropped up here; requesting assistance to get her cleared.”

The radio crackled, then came to life.

“Okay, tag the location and stand by for location verification. We’re sending out a crew—out.”

Ben tucked his radio away and took out his phone. He tapped an app on the home screen and clicked around a few times, setting his current location into the device’s memory, then turned on the GPS beacon.

Within minutes, a crew of four men and two women arrived at the campsite and began strapping the grizzly onto a board.

The rangers would move Mo to another area of the park with less human traffic. She would eventually wander down again, drawn to the enticing opportunity ignorant campers left her.

This was Mo’s third repositioning, and Ben was worried it would be her last.

Don’t come back down here, Mo, Ben willed the sleeping giant. I won’t be able to help you out again.

13

THE CHEVY HICCUPED over an invisible pothole in the road, and the aging suspension compensated with a clicking sound and a groan.

Ben pulled the truck to the left, easing it back to the center of the narrow dirt road before turning the radio up. The country song already blaring through the strained cabin speakers didn’t need a boost, but it got one anyway.

“You really don’t like to talk, do you?” Ben’s passenger yelled. The young man sitting to Ben’s right glanced over at him.

Ben kept his attention on the uneven road lying before them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben noticed Carlos Rivera turning back to looking out his side window. Over the past hour, Ben had said maybe ten words, and what he had said was mainly instructive, telling Rivera to “call in to base” or “check Mo” in the truck bed. To his credit, Rivera had dutifully done as he was told, but Bennett still hadn’t warmed to him.

They drove on for another fifteen minutes, moving slowly over bumps and divots, until finally, Ben pulled off the road and began guiding the truck over a small plain toward the edge of the forest. Behind it, a small mountain lifted itself from the flat ground, shadowed by Antler Peak to the north. As they drove, Ben took in the surroundings—it was beautiful, pristine. He took a deep breath and turned the radio back down.

“No, I don’t much care for talking,” he said. Rivera glanced over. “You’re a decent enough kid, I guess. Thanks for helping out today.”

Rivera laughed. “Kid? What, aren’t you like twenty-five yourself?”

Ben kept his eyes straight, looking out at the road. “Thirty-two.”

Rivera nodded, a surprised look on his face, as they pulled up to the thick tree line. The section of woods in front of them stretched around the base of the mountain, ending about halfway up and turning into a scraggly patch of saplings and bushes. Ben maneuvered the truck backwards into a gap between two trees and jumped out. He unhitched the tie-downs on the side of his truck and waited for Rivera to do the same on his side.

Ben moved to the rear of the truck and started to pull the tailgate down.

“Did you feel that?”

Ben looked up at his partner. Out of nowhere, a heavy bass note rocked the ground at their feet, and Ben felt a pressure of sound vibrate through his head. The deep rumble grew to a deafening tremor, then quickly died, reverberating through the trees.

“What the—” Rivera backed away from the truck, looking to the east and squinting through a strand of trees. His eyes grew wide. “Ben. Look.”

Ben followed the younger man’s gaze. A smoking mass mushroomed from the horizon upward. The cloud billowed out, growing exponentially.

Neither man spoke. They just watched, glued to the spot.

Suddenly an earthquake tore through the trees, ripping roots and stumps from the ground and lifting the truck into the air and throwing both men thirty feet head over heels. Ben hit the ground so hard he felt his insides churn.

He forced himself to sit up, trying to get his bearings, but the temblor would not stop. The truck lay on its side but he couldn’t get to it even if it wasn’t.

The ground had opened up. A widening gap in the earth drew a jagged line in the cracking dry soil and threatened to swallow the entire vehicle. Ben stumbled when he tried to stand.

We have to get out of here. Ben whipped around. Where’s Rivera?

He wasn’t at the truck. The bear’s cage had toppled off the back and now lay upside down. Ben broke into a run and leapt over the widening crevasse.

Working frantically at the animal pen, he unlocked the padlock on the door and unlatched the two enclosures. He swung the door open and reached in.

Just as he did, he ripped his arm back.

Of all the things there was to worry about, and all he was concerned with was helping this bear survive.

Good way to lose a hand, he thought. He looked into the cage to find the grizzly unmoving, but breathing. The great beast was still unconscious.

The earth began to settle back to normal.

As fast as it had happened, it was over. In a mere thirty seconds the ground had lifted up, been pushed together with cataclysmic force, and fallen back down again. Trees had toppled over one another, trunks battered and smashed in half. Boulders that had rested in place for a millennia now sat disturbed, some cracked and broken.

And now, tranquility…

“Ben! Help!”

Rivera’s voice came from somewhere on the other side of the truck. He ran toward it, skidding to a halt near the edge of the new fissure in the ground. Ben could see that the earth actually sloped downward for about twenty feet before it dropped straight down into an abyss.

Rivera was dangling over the edge, his white-knuckled fingers clawed around a tree root.

“I can’t hold on,” Rivera said.

Ben dropped to his stomach and reached down, grasping the other man’s free hand. He gritted his teeth, summoning all his strength, and pulled.

The edge of the fissure wasn’t solid rock, and as Ben pulled Rivera upward, the sides of the cliff eroded and fell away. Ben struggled with the angle for a half minute, then stopped.

“Switch hands. Give me your other arm,” Ben shouted down to Rivera.

The young man’s eyes burned with fear as he tried to do as instructed.

His arms shook as Ben willed himself to drag his colleague out of the hole.

And then, an aftershock, trembling through the woods.

The ground quaked again.

Ben lost his grip.

Rivera tumbled back down, swinging from the root with his other sweat-soaked hand.

Ben lunged over the edge to grab him, his finger glancing across Rivera’s collar but missing him by mere inches. His hand slammed back into the wall of the cliff.

And then the tree root broke loose and snapped away from the dirt.

Rivera looked up at Ben as he realized in that instant what was happening.

The tree root fell away and Rivera with it.

Within seconds he was gone.

Ben called down to him.

There was no answer.

###

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AFTERWORD

If you liked this book (or even if you hated it…) write a review or rate it. You might not think it makes a difference, but it does.

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Nick Thacker

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nick Thacker is a thriller author from Texas who lives in Hawaii. In his free time, he enjoys reading in a hammock on the beach, skiing, drinking whiskey, and hanging out with his beautiful wife, two dogs, and two daughters.

For more information and a list of Nick’s other work, visit Nick online:

www.nickthacker.com

BOOKS BY NICK THACKER

Jake Parker Thrillers

Containment (Book 1)

The Patriot (Book 2)

False Allegiance (Book 3)

Six Assassins Thrillers

Primary Target (Book 1)

Subtle Target (Book 2)

Unstable Target (Book 3)

Captive Target (Book 4)

Vendetta Target (Book 5)

Final Target (Book 6)

Mason Dixon Thrillers

Mark for Blood (Book 1)

Death Mark (Book 2)

Mark My Words (Book 3)

Harvey Bennett Mysteries

The Enigma Strain (Book 1)

The Amazon Code (Book 2)

The Ice Chasm (Book 3)

The Jefferson Legacy (Book 4)

The Paradise Key (Book 5)

The Aryan Agenda (Book 6)

The Book of Bones (Book 7)

The Cain Conspiracy (Book 8)

The Mendel Paradox (Book 9)

The Minoan Manifest (Book 10)

The Napoleon Job (Book 11)

Harvey Bennett Mysteries - Books 1-3

Harvey Bennett Mysteries - Books 4-6

Harvey Bennett Mysteries - Books 7-9

Jo Bennett Mysteries

Temple of the Snake (written with David Berens)

Tomb of the Queen (written with Kristi Belcamino)

Harvey Bennett Prequels

The Icarus Effect (written with MP MacDougall)

The Severed Pines (written with Jim Heskett)

The Lethal Bones (written with Jim Heskett)

Gareth Red Thrillers

Seeing Red

Chasing Red (written with Kevin Ikenberry)

The Lucid

The Lucid: Episode One (written with Kevin Tumlinson)

The Lucid: Episode Two (written with Kevin Tumlinson)

The Lucid: Episode Three (written with Kevin Tumlinson

Standalone Thrillers

The Atlantis Stone

The Depths

Relics: A Post-Apocalyptic Technothriller

Killer Thrillers (3-Book Box Set)

Short Stories

I, Sergeant

Instinct

The Gray Picture of Dorian

Uncanny Divide (written with Kevin Tumlinson and Will Flora)

The Phoenix Project: A Harvey Bennett Novella

Copyright © 2021 by Nick Thacker

Published by Turtleshell Press

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of fictional characters to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All right reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Contents

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The Phoenix Project – Nick Thacker

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

A Word from the Author

The Napoleon Job

Napoleon

Billy

Saul

The Enigma Strain

Prologue

Prologue

Prologue

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Afterword

About the Author

Books by Nick Thacker

Copyright