The Solomon Key (7 page)

It passed by.

Scott waited another few minutes before getting out of bed and descending the stairs back to Edward. “I’m going to pack. You should get some rest. It’s going to get interesting tomorrow.”

Edward nodded, his expression revealing little concern. Without his dogs, he suddenly felt disconnected from the world, no longer a reason to stay in it. As he looked into Scott’s eyes, he saw his concern. “I’ll be fine, Matthew.” Then he rolled onto his side, his mind asking a million questions, none of which really concerned him at the present moment. They could all wait until morning.

“I’ll wake you when it’s time,” Scott stated as he walked to a window and split the blinds with his fingers. No sign of the police. He looked at his watch. It was a little after one. Curfew wasn’t lifted until five. They would be leaving at 5:30 A.M. Where they were going, however, was still uncertain. He left the window, offered a last quick glance at Edward, and then moved down a hallway.

He was ready for this day, always knew it would come, though he had imagined different circumstances creating the need for it. He also hadn’t counted on anyone being with him, especially not an older man with an injured leg. He’d have to make some alterations to his plan. But as he reached for the backpack atop a shelf in the hallway closet, he had to admit that he never thought he would’ve been able to hold out this long. Was he grateful for the extra time, for what it allowed? It hadn’t restored his marriage or brought back the friends he once had. Hadn’t taken away all the shame, hadn’t restored peace to the country…

Whatever.

He opened a hidden compartment within the hallway closet, revealing a few studs that reinforced the walls. One of the studs, however, was cut to allow for a compact M4 rifle inside, running vertically through its center and hiding it from the police scanners. As he grabbed it, he peeked around the corner and down the hallway, toward where Edward was sleeping on the couch. Edward was going to need answers about all of this. He was going to want to know who he really was. So he began thinking of how much he should reveal and how much would be better left unsaid. His brain worked on that equation as his hands handled the assault rifle, ammunition, and gear that was years ago the most advanced. Within an hour, he was packed and pretty sure he had an adequate story ready for Edward. He set his watch, leaving the backpack and rifle on the hallway floor. Crossing through the living room, he passed Edward and went up to his bed.

It was hard for Scott to fall asleep. So much was going through his mind. He found it remarkable that Edward was able to find rest so easily. He felt sorry for Edward. He had lost it all, outliving everything in this life that he held dear. His wife, his son, his dogs, even the country he’d served. And, in an indirect way, Scott had something to do with that. He struggled with the decision to edit that fact from his story.

His thoughts traveled without direction, just one leading to the next, taking him wherever. It didn’t matter. The ring, Jack, this archeologist girl, Indiana Jones, the old movie theatre by his house, his first date… Soon he wouldn’t even be able to recognize the path of thoughts that led him here. To
these
thoughts. Thoughts of his wife.

The last time he saw her was in 2013, just a few months after the terrorist “event” in L.A. A long time ago. He could still feel that kiss, the last one they shared before he walked across the runway and boarded the plane. The plane to hell. He shifted in the bed, turning onto his side, chasing the image of her from his head — her short strawberry hair that blew down across her green eyes as she waved goodbye, the tears that passed over her quivering lips…

His stomach started to turn. He pulled a pillow over his head. He hated thinking about her. He hated it more than anything else in life. He wished he could erase her memory from his brain, forget she ever existed — that
they
ever existed. He didn’t know where she was, how she was, or even if she was. All he knew was that it was all his fault. Everything.

Times like these he wished he was back in that dark room where all he could hear was his own screaming and all he could see was his own blood. It was a better reality than the one that paraded the only thing he ever loved so constantly through his mind. To have his head sawn off would have been wonderful compared to living with the guilt that came from leaving her. Oh, he wished he had been killed. Wished he had some excuse for not coming home to her. But death wouldn’t justify what he had done prior to that, the very reason he couldn’t come home. It was the largest and most damning of all his sins that was to blame, the watershed to everything else that now tormented him.

He had been strong enough to escape the physical danger and to stay alive all these years, but he was running out of the resolve it took to withstand the emotional anguish that came with the surviving. He hated himself for it.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t his fault anymore. Coming to his mind’s eye was a crowd of powerful men, all without faces. Shadows. And as his muscles tensed beneath the sheets, a tremor of violence shaking his body, he thought of what he would do to them if ever he was before them.

6

A
faint red glow broke the horizon,
the line it struck across the distance like a fire signaling the end of the world. Or the beginning of the day. Either one was a possibility.

Mathew Scott stood before the coffee table, his eyes fixated on the ring. He had been intent on passing the table and the empty couch in favor of the kitchen when the mysterious object caught his eye, stopping him. He was still staring at it when Edward walked into the room.

Having freshened up in the bathroom, Edward came in behind Scott, noticed his friend’s trance-like state, and followed his frozen stare to the ring. It wasn’t until his hand was on Scott’s shoulder that Scott blinked and turned his head.

“You okay, Matthew?” Edward asked, his eyes more suspicious than sensitive.

“Tired,” came the muttered reply. Finally turning away from the coffee table, he walked past Edward, skipping the kitchen after all, and went instead to retrieve his packed bag.

“Matthew, how did you know I was in trouble?”

The answer came from around the corner. “Saw a news report accusing Melissa Strauss of having connections with terrorists.”

Edward’s brow wrinkled.

“She’s in a coma. I guess she was hoping for Jack to help her somehow. I think she sent him the ring to keep it out of their hands. I came over as soon as I pieced it together, knowing they’d come looking for it.”

After a moment of silence, Edward stated, “We need to talk.” Even as he said it, he found himself staring at Scott’s bulging forearms as he carried the rifle and backpack into the living room.

Scott set the bag down and turned to face Edward. “I know you have a lot of questions for me, and I’d like to know why that ring is so important to them myself, but we have to get moving. We can talk about it on the way. I don’t know that they can trace you back here, but we’re not sticking around to find out.”

“I’m not going with you.”

The statement took Scott back a step. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll only slow you down.”

Scott didn’t have time for this, and he said so.

“Matthew, I don’t have the drive for this anymore. I don’t want to run.”

“Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder.”

Edward knew from the look in Scott’s eye that there was no way he was going to let him stay. Besides, being tortured to death wasn’t exactly his ideal way of leaving earth. “Where we going?”

“I don’t know. North.”

“What’s north?”

Scott shrugged. “If we go far enough, nothing.”

Edward turned his head, motioning back at the ring. “What about that?”

“I’m sure them having it isn’t in mankind’s best interest. We can toss it in a lake. Story over.”

He was able to respond quickly because he’d already considered a similar course of action himself. “I’m not so sure. Why would Melissa send it to Jack instead of getting rid of it herself? I think she wanted him to have it, to figure out what it means.”

“We could speculate all day, Ed. But soon we’re going to hear choppers, and then we may never find out what or why because we’ll be dead.”

They both looked down to the gold ring that was fitted with some kind of clear lens, intent on just a casual glance in the direction of what it was they were referring to. But again it held their eyes a bit longer than necessary. There it sat, unmoving, inanimate, and yet there was a feeling it triggered — a mystery it seemed to whisper. “I would like to find out what it is,” Edward said under his breath, more to himself than to Scott.

“Whatever you want, Ed. But first we get somewhere safe.”

7

S
cott backed the Bronco out of the driveway
and into the street just as a black helicopter flew overhead with a
woosh,
its blades barely audible.

“Great,” Scott grumbled as he watched it disappear over the tree line. It was traveling low and fast, almost invisible against the dark rainclouds that were beginning to gather around the morning sun.

They drove in silence, nerves too tight to even whisper, the sound of the truck’s motor as it accelerated and decelerated the only noise in their ears. Holding their breath, they waited for the sight of flashing lights to come racing up behind them.

There was no one else on the road, and that was a problem. But they didn’t have any other option. To leave during curfew would have been way too risky, and to wait until later in the day would have left them subject to certain roadblocks — roadblocks that may already be established.

They would find out in a second.

Rounding a bend, Scott made a turn away from Jamaica, Vermont — his home for the last decade.

Up ahead, Depot Street dead-ended at VT 100, which was a road they either needed to cross or merge with in order to get anywhere away from here. But already they could make out a few army trucks and some police cars blocking their escape route.

They were too late.

Scott turned the headlights off and brought the truck to a slow stop, swearing under his breath. Before Edward could even say anything, he had the car going in reverse and back around the bend, out of the checkpoint’s view. Throwing the truck in drive, he swung it around and headed back north on Depot Street. He pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor for the first time in years.

“What’s your plan?” asked Edward, gripping the passenger door. The only place this road would take them was into Jamaica State Park.

What Scott
wanted
to do was what he had always planned on doing if ever a situation like this were to arise — the very reason he’d settled in Jamaica. He wanted to ditch the truck in the park and travel on foot where there would be plenty of options once concealed by the wilderness. Edward’s wound, however, made that option very impractical. Traveling slowly through the state park would only ensure detection by the NAU soldiers he knew to be patrolling it. But what other option did they have? There was only one other road that went to 100, and that too was sure to be closed.

“Take me back to your place,” Edward said, his voice calm and resolute.

Scott looked over at him. “What?”

“Your only way out is through the park. I’ll just slow you down. I can stay at your place for—”

Scott cut him off by telling him to shut up.

“I’m serious, Matthew.” Edward’s voice was stern and, along with his bulldog build and seniority, would probably have been enough to intimidate most people into compliance. But Matthew Scott was not most people.

“I said shut up. I’m not leaving you behind. You say another word about it, and I’ll break your jaw.”

The response was unexpected, the coldness in his voice threatening sincerity, and Edward once again found himself wondering just who this man really was.

They were flying up Depot Street, back toward town, when the flashing lights they were dreading finally materialized behind them.

“Company,” Edward stated. The black police car just happened to be turning off Water Street as they were passing by.

“Hold on.” Scott took the truck up to 80mph — which prompted the sounding of an awful siren that completely shattered the morning’s early stillness. Scott’s own street blurred by on the left as he sped past it and continued on toward the park.

And then a few next-generation military Armored Security Vehicles suddenly broke the horizon ahead, coming straight toward them.

“You should go back to Worden,” said Edward as he leaned into the back seat for the M4.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

The DARPA-designed 90mm electromagnetic rail guns the new ASVs sported would more than complicate their odds of escape. Scott pulled a pistol from his pants and rolled both windows down. The morning air came rushing into their faces, the wind and the siren deafening. And before Edward knew what was going on, Scott slammed on the brakes, turned the wheel to the left, and threw their entire world into a half-spin… which ended abruptly with the truck rocking back and forth on its wheels.

Edward leaned out the window and fired the M4 at the police car, its flashing red lights only a hundred yards away and closing fast. It was an offense punishable by death. The M4’s 5.56x45mm NATO rounds splashed into the car’s hood and pierced both front tires, sending it off the road.

Risking one short glance over his shoulder and seeing the ASVs bearing down on them, Scott slammed back down on the gas, smoke erupting from the spinning tires. They shot forward just as machine gun fire erupted from behind, exploding the back window.

“Get down!” Scott yelled. They flew past the broken police car and back toward his own street. The military would squeeze them from both directions. They had no choice now — the park was their only hope.

Scott turned hard right, the Bronco screeching as it swung around the bend, a wave of 5,400 mph conductive projectiles from the rail gun that sat mounted on the ASV piercing the passenger side of the truck until the Bronco straightened out and cleared the bend.