Dragon Blood Read online

  He pulls helplessly at the handcuffs. "What is that?"

  I gesture for my team to hold him down. He shrieks as I place the needle near his nostril.

  "Please calm down, Professor, I haven't injected you. Yet. And I won't, provided you answer a few simple questions."

  He nods, trying not to move his neck. "Anything! I'll answer anything!"

  "Very well. First question. How is it that an anthropology professor can afford a house like this?"

  "I do consulting work on the side."

  "Yes, you do. Well answered. Keep telling the truth and you'll survive this night. We know you've been making inquiries regarding a lost cache of dragon bones. Who hired you for the job?"

  "Lord Beasley."

  "Who?"

  "Lord Simon Beasley. He's a British expatriate. I think he lives somewhere in Florida. I have his number in my phone. It's in my front shirt pocket."

  I take the phone from his pocket with my gloved hand.

  "Last question, professor. Where are the bones located?"

  His face darkens and his eyes bulge. "I don't know. I swear to God, I don't. I'm a cultural anthropologist. I was hired by Beasley to research the Coptic presence in Ethiopia. He asked me to stay alert for any information about dragon bones. But I discovered nothing along those lines. Dragon bones? Can you imagine? It's ridiculous."

  I jab the needle up his nostril and push the plunger, injecting him with a chemical that causes a heart attack. "There's nothing ridiculous about dragons, professor."

  He gasps like a fish as he dies.

  I see Spero avert her eyes. She's adorable that way.

  Once the professor stops flopping around, I return the syringe to its case and Snedeker removes the handcuffs.

  I hand the professor's phone to Kaplan, who carries a device to clone it.

  As Kaplan works on the phone, Snedeker frowns at the body. "He peed his pants, boss. It's supposed to be a heart attack. Do people with heart attacks pee their pants?"

  "Perhaps you should call a cardiologist."

  "Really? You think that's a good idea?"

  My anger flares. "Sarcasm, Snedeker!"

  Snedeker parks the team's black SUV in the motor pool outside Fort Adams, the regional headquarters of the Knights of Rome.

  The fort, located near Newport, Rhode Island, is a historical site open to the public. Beneath it lies the secret multilevel KoR command center. KoR is the only serious organization dedicated to eradicating paranormals, and we've been doing it since the reign of Roman emperor Constantine the Great, who was a contemporary of Saint George himself.

  It's December, and as we exit the vehicle, we're blasted by a frigid wind blowing in from over the bay. We go through security at the north visitor gate. It's early morning now and the tourists still haven't arrived.

  We pass a Civil War–era naval gun emplacement, stoop under a brick arch, and make our way down a corridor and a set of hidden stairs, finally arriving at a secret entrance. There are several of these entrances, but this one is closest to where we parked.

  The door handle reads my biometric signature and opens to my touch. Once inside the topmost level of the base, Level Blue, I dismiss my team and head off to file an after action report.

  Cold-faced guards with silverweave body armor and assault rifles eye me as I pass. I need to get out of this business suit and into a uniform.

  I enter my report at a console in the operations center and discover that I've been summoned to Preceptor Stockhausen's office. That's troubling. Why would the base commander want to see me? In my entire career, I've only had a few conversations with her, and never in her office.

  I take the elevator down to Level Red and change clothes in the locker room. It's unthinkable to meet the Preceptor in civilian clothes. I immediately feel more comfortable when I'm in my black officer's uniform.

  After a quick security screening, I step onto the elevator and descend to Level Black. I've only been there twice: once to the Hall of Records to take my vows, and once to the Hall of Regents to be knighted.

  I step off the elevator and enter the shadowy hallways of Level Black. The Knights of Rome emblem hangs across from the elevator, a gold laurel wreath on a crimson background. Even after all these years, it fills me with pride when I see it.

  Level Black is a notorious labyrinth. On my own, it would take some time to find the Preceptor's office. Fortunately, an escort approaches and guides me there.

  I step into her office and find the Preceptor awaiting me at a glass desk.

  I've heard about Stockhausen's ant map, but it's much bigger than I imagined. The entire wall on the left side of the room is a giant ant farm that forms a map of the United States, showing KoR field offices and paranormal hotspots. The crawling ants form the borders between the states. It's quite the bizarre spectacle.

  The Preceptor gestures to a chair across from her. "Have a seat, Sir Argyros."

  How annoying. After my decades of work here, she still can't pronounce my name properly. It's Ar-yee-ROS. No point in correcting her, I suppose. She's probably doing it intentionally.

  She taps her fingers on the desk as she stares at me with her bright blue eyes. She looks unsure of how to begin.

  "Colonel, I'm afraid I have some upsetting news. Our budget has been cut, and we're being forced to shut down your department."

  My heart quickens and I leap to my feet. "You can't do that. Dragons are the single biggest threat to humanity!"

  She looks at me with what must be pity. "With respect, Colonel, there haven't been any confirmed dragon sightings since the nineteenth century."

  "They've gone into hiding, thanks to our efforts. But I warn you, they'll reemerge if we fail to remain vigilant."

  "Please sit down, Alexander."

  I hear my first name so infrequently that I've nearly forgotten it. It takes me aback, and I sit.

  "Please, Preceptor, you have to stop this. I'm in the middle of an important investigation."

  Her voice grows cold. "I've just read the report you filed. You can't go around eliminating every academic who's researching dragons."

  "This is a genuine lead. I know it."

  "How do you know it?"

  "Because I am a direct descendent of Saint George himself, and I carry his relic."

  "His finger bone? The carbon dating was inconclusive."

  "I'm convinced of the bone's authenticity."

  Stockhausen shifts to a more sympathetic tone. "I'm sure you're right. Listen, I'm sorry to tell you this, but it's not just your department under the budget axe. You're in your fifties now, and we want you to take an early retirement."

  "What? That's outrageous! I still have nine years left!"

  "Look at it as an opportunity. Do you have any hobbies?"

  "Killing dragons."

  "Alexander, please hear me when I say this. There are no dragons. You need a new hobby."

  "I won't accept early retirement."

  "If you like, we can keep you on until April twenty-third. That's Saint George's day, the day you were knighted. That gives you a few months to wrap things up."

  "I can continue with this investigation?"

  "Only if you agree to retire in April."

  I take a moment to think it over. This is probably the best deal I'll receive. Once they see the results of my investigation, they won't be able to retire me.

  "Very well, Preceptor. I accept your terms, predicated, of course, on a generous severance package."

  She nods, relieved. "I'll do my best. You're dismissed."

  I leave her office, trying to calm my anger and despair. I've always had bad luck, and this is yet another example. But I can still salvage my career. I have the chronomichani, something KoR doesn't know about, and I have a plan to use it.

  Now is the time for bold action. As Alexander the Great once said, there is nothing impossible to him who will try.

  Dragon Blood

  TYLER BUCK

  I turn over in bed
and find Ayana asleep beside me. How did she get here?

  How much of that tej did I drink? I feel really tired, but oddly, I don't have a hangover. My only regret about tonight is that I don't remember the sex with Ayana. I bet it was spectacular.

  I really need to piss. I slip out of bed, duck under the mosquito gauze, and relieve myself in the nearby bathroom. Once my eyes adjust to the bathroom light, I check the slim waterproof travel pouch hanging around my neck. I never take it off, even in the shower. It carries my passport, credit cards, and a bunch of the big-ticket gift cards. I'm relieved to find that nothing is missing.

  Traveling a lot has made me wary of thieves. I always leave my survey gear locked up with hotel security, but I never trust my passport with anyone.

  I leave the bathroom and head for the table next to the hotel room door. I left my wallet there, and as always, I put a single hair between the folds so I'll know if someone messed with it. The wallet is just for show. It has a few dollars in it to keep any muggers happy. I also use it to test people. I hold the wallet up to the moonlight and see that the hair is still there.

  So Ayana isn't a thief. That's nice. But even if she was, it wouldn't be a deal breaker. In Paris last year, I slept with a girl who had stolen my bait wallet five months before. Of course, she stole it again, but it was totally worth it.

  I understand thieves. Some people would call me one. I'm okay with that. My mom followed the rules all her life, and look where it got her. We lived in poverty and despair. But not anymore.

  I head back to bed, eager to wake up Ayana and do some stuff with her that I'll actually remember.

  But the bed is empty. She must have slipped out while I was in the bathroom. Damn it to hell.

  By morning, I'm in a Jeep with my nervous driver. He's probably not a day over eighteen, and he's taking me to a part of the Omo Valley the locals call the Ghostlands.

  My two security guys, both former Ethiopian soldiers, left a few hours before us to scout out the survey zone. They'll radio my driver if they see any problems ahead.

  We pass a village with conical huts and makeshift animal corrals. Topless Mursi women with huge clay discs in their lips collect money from leering Westerners who want a picture with them. I hate those kinds of tourists. Exploiting the poverty of the natives just to impress their social media buddies. I hope they're getting overcharged.

  A few hours later we reach the Omo River. My driver stops the Jeep and steps out to check an old bridge with steel railings and wooden planks. Some of the planks have holes, revealing the chocolate-colored water below.

  Satisfied with the bridge's condition, the driver returns to the Jeep and we cross without a problem. It's a little bumpy, but not the worst bridge I've seen.

  We soon pass another village, this one not meant for the tourists. There are no beautiful girls with painted clay discs in their lips, just tired women with babies on their hips, and brown-toothed men carrying AK-47s. There isn't any terrorism here, but there are a lot of fights over grazing rights.

  For a few minutes, a group of boys chases after our Jeep, calling out something I don't understand. I ask the driver to translate, but he ignores me. His English isn't very good, so maybe he didn't understand my question.

  The boys break away when an old man starts waving a green stick at them.

  We pass the next few hours without seeing any people at all. I also haven't seen any animals. I read online that Ethiopia has leopards, cheetahs, lions, giraffes, hyenas, crocodiles, and monkeys. So where are they? I guess I was expecting a nonstop safari.

  I track our progress on my mobile phone's GPS. There's no cell signal out here, but the GPS still picks up the satellites and I cached the maps before I got here. We have trouble finding a road that leads to where we need to go, so the driver reluctantly sets an off-road course.

  In the distant north, I can see the blue mountains of Ethiopia's highlands. That's the source of the Omo River. The silt it picks up there turns the water brown.

  I smell something smoky and sweet and realize the small thorny bushes we're passing are myrrh trees. There is also an occasional mushroom-shaped acacia tree, which for me is the symbol of Africa.

  We finally manage to find the survey zone, where the driver refuels the Jeep from the battered metal tanks of gas we've been carrying.

  I unload my survey gear, along with the camping equipment I got in Arba Minch. I also have an old rifle I bought off the driver's boss. I'm no gun expert, but I know it's best to have one out here.

  I don't see any sign of my security guards, but the driver insists they are here. I ask him to stay until they show up.

  After I unload, the effing driver takes off without a word. He damned well better return in a week to pick me up. He wanted me to pay in advance for the return trip, but I refused. If I did that, I'd be stuck out here forever.

  I stop and take a moment to study my surroundings. I'm in an area of desert scrub. It reminds me a little of the high desert outside of Pueblo. A vulture glides in slow circles high above, the first sign of life I've seen out here.

  I survey the terrain with my treasure hunter's eye. I can see why Beasley is interested in this spot. His satellite images no doubt picked up the large hill nearby. There are other hills in the area, but none like this one, which stands alone from the others.

  If I was going to build a Coptic shrine, it would be on top of that hill. But I know not to look there first. If there was a visible structure, Beasley would have mentioned it. I'll need to hike around the hill and study the erosion patterns. When buildings fall apart, they tend to get washed away, so I always search the low points first. Ancient, dry riverbeds are a great place to find interesting pieces. When I caught the treasure hunting bug, I took some geology and archeology classes at the community college. I learned a lot. It's a shame you can't get a degree in treasure hunting.

  I get to work setting up camp and barely finish by dark. There isn't enough wood around for a fire, so I cook dinner on a propane stove: chili from a just-add-water package.

  There's still no sign of my security guys, and I'm worried. I keep thinking about those men with AK-47s. Did they kill my security men, or did my guys simply abandon me?

  This situation isn't looking good, so I should report in to Lord Beasley.

  I unpack the kit with the satellite phone and am stunned to find it empty. Who took it? The driver? Someone at the hotel? I doubt it. It was probably taken at the airport. I should have done a full inventory of my equipment before I left, but I was irritated and wasn't thinking. That was a stupid mistake.

  So here I am, in the middle of nowhere, with no security and no communications, and my driver isn't returning for a week. Assuming, of course, that he is coming back. He didn't look too happy to be out here.

  I try to calm myself by watching the stars. There's no light pollution here, and the sky is so clear I can see the dust of the Milky Way.

  I'm really tired, and despite this bad situation, I have to get some sleep. As I crawl into my tent, I find myself wishing it had windows. I won't be able to see the lions sneaking up on me, and these thin tent walls won't do much to stop them.

  I curl up with my hands on my rifle.

  After a mostly sleepless night, I crawl exhausted from my tent and start some oatmeal on the propane stove.

  The air is different in the morning, wetter and muskier. A haze is blocking my view of the highlands.

  I'm eager to get started on the survey. Hopefully, the work will keep me from worrying about all the ways there are to die out here.

  I gulp down my oatmeal with a cup of instant coffee. Nasty stuff, this coffee. I use a double dose and it wakes the hell out of me.

  As I prep my survey gear, I notice animal tracks in the dust outside my tent. Shit, I don't remember seeing those when I made camp. They look like dog prints. Were the hyenas here, hunting for human flesh?

  I once had a guide who peed a circle around the tent before going to bed. Marked it as his t
erritory. I should probably start doing that.

  After breakfast, I get all my gear together and hike toward the hill. Almost immediately I find a likely washout area and set up the ground-penetrating radar to have a quick look. If this place proves promising, I'll build a proper search grid and walk the transects.

  My badass 3-D underground imager cost about thirty grand. Beasley picked up the tab, of course. It looks like a lawnmower on two big wheels. It runs on solar-charged batteries and shows the ground in colors, with green being regular dirt and red being objects of interest. I can send the feed in real time to my phone or a pair of goggles. All the chronological and spatial data is recorded with the imaging. I can even run time slices at different depths in the soil. Took me a month to learn how to use it, but I love this thing.

  After a few minutes, I get a hit on something with a promising shape about seven inches below the surface. I grab my shovel and dig, being careful not to strike the prospect.

  A few minutes later, I pull a long object from the sandy soil. Crap, it's a JAFR. Just Another Fucking Rock. The shape fooled me. That happens sometimes.

  Still, I have a good feeling about this area. Without wasting any more time, I run ribbon to make a thirty-by-fifty-foot grid with corridors for the GPR. It takes me a few hours to make three passes over the grid, each at a different depth.

  It turns out to be a huge waste of time. The JAFR was the only thing here. I'm not off to a great start, and I'm second-guessing myself. Who's to say the shrine was built on exposed ground? It could be under the hill, hidden inside a sealed-off cavern. Maybe I should have started on top of the hill.

  Suddenly, I hear hooting and laughing. I recognize that sound from a video I watched before I left Florida. Hyenas! God, they sound creepy.

  I grab the rifle and survey the scrub. I don't see anything. Suddenly I feel a pain on the back of my neck. Adrenaline hits me as I slap my neck, crushing a giant fly. Shit, I didn't put on repellent this morning! What if it's a tsetse fly bite?