David Golemon - Ancients

"Now, that was a warning! The next burst is going to chew your ass up. You have three seconds to surrender that popgun you have. Oh, hell, forget it. I'm not waiting." The point man fired a three-round burst into the stairwell and the basement below. The men behind him on the stairs smiled as he did so.

"Okay, okay, you son of a bitch. You didn't have to do that. Give a man time to think goddammit!"

"You're all out of time, fuckhead! You took a shot at the wrong goddamn black man!"

"Who in the hell are you?"

"That's of no concern to you at the moment!" Another three-round burst was sent into the basement, close to but not near enough to the unseen man below to cause him any harm. "I didn't hear that cap gun hit the floor yet, asshole!"

"Goddamn maniacs!" The whimpering voice answered from below, but that was quickly followed by the clatter of metal hitting concrete.

The point man didn't hesitate. He took the stairs quickly and the others behind him made as much noise as possible to tell the man below that the maniac had a lot of company. They heard the commands before they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"On your belly, Rockefeller. Hands spread out in front. Now , dammit! Put those silk pajamas on the cold-ass floor!"

The others arrived and watched as a plastic wire tie was placed on the wrists of a very large, rotund man. The man's breathing seemed distressed, and the leader of the assault team gestured for the point man to get him on his feet.

"Who ... who ... who are you? What do you want?" the man rasped in halting words.

The team leader found a large chair behind an even larger desk and pushed it toward him with his black boot.

"You're not going to die on us, are you?"

The fat man took several deep breaths and finally color began to run back into his face. The lighting was sufficient in the spacious basement to see that he was recovering from his initial shock.

"As for who we are, we're the people that have come to take back the things you have stolen over the years and to make you account for the lost lives of innocent archaeology students in Ethiopia. That's who we are."

The owner of the mansion watched from his chair as the black hood was removed. The three other men did the same. The angry black man to his front was staring a hole through him. He shied away, leaning as far back in the chair as possible, when he realized that it was the man he had taken the shot at.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an investment banker and commodities trader," he said, still looking at Mendenhall.

Colonel Jack Collins stepped forward, tossing his hood to Carl Everett, standing at his side.

"Mr. Krueger, do we look like men who have been misinformed? Do you think we came here on a whim, or do you think we may have a purpose?"

Krueger looked from face to face. There was no identifying insignia on their clothing and each man had his face set, and it was a determined look.

"No ... I mean yes, you look as if you have a purpose."

"We know about your collection, so, if you would like to leave this house in one piece, you'll show it to us right now. I'm sure you don't want the authorities involved here, do you?"

Krueger looked as if he had accepted his fate in one fell swoop. His head lay to the side and he started to cry. His large frame shook with his sobbing as Will Mendenhall helped him to his feet.

Colonel Collins looked over at Everett, who nodded and then walked over and assisted in getting the overweight Krueger to a standing position. Collins waited while the art-and-antiquities thief, not to say murderer, composed himself. He heard a click in his earpiece. He thumbed a small switch at his throat that activated his transmitter. He turned away from Krueger.

"Recovery One," he said softly into his throat microphone.

"This is Eagle Eye. All palace guards are cooperating and we have Ernie's Fix-it Shop and Recovery Three on property and moving toward your pos, over."

Collins heard the whispered voice from his outside security. Instead of answering, he reached down and manually clicked his mic twice.

Everett also heard the report. All the security guards had been rounded up and placed in a safe location, still out from the tranquilizers, and now the three-man outside security element reported another Event team approaching the house. Carl rolled back his black glove and looked at his watch. Not bad, he thought; Ryan and his team were right on schedule. Not bad for a flyboy.

"Okay, Krueger, the artifacts," Collins said, stepping toward the man.

"Take me over to my desk, please."

Jack nodded, and Mendenhall and Everett walked him over to a large, ornate desk in the far corner of the basement office. The large man reached out for the top drawer.

"Ah-ah-ah, we'll open it for you," the black man said. Mendenhall leaned forward and gently pulled out the top drawer. He gave Krueger a mock-disappointed look and removed the snub-nosed .38 Police Special and tossed it over to Collins.

"That was not my intent. There's a button just under the lip of the desk. Push it once."

Mendenhall felt around until he found it and then pushed it.

At first, there was nothing. They could hear only the activity upstairs as Ernie's Fix-it Shop, an Event Group maintenance team, went to work with subdued hammering and electric-tool sounds. Then battery-powered flood-lights joined those few emergency lights and illuminated the room brightly. In the harsh glare, the team could see nothing but barren walls. There were a few things like diplomas and family pictures, but other than that, they were white and empty.

"Push the button one more time," Krueger said with his chin almost touching his chest in despair.

Mendenhall repeated the process and they heard an electric motor, obviously battery-operated also, start to hum, and then the far eighty-foot-long wall parted in the center and slowly slid back in two sections on hidden tracks.

Instead of watching the false wall divulge its secrets, Collins watched Krueger. He sniffled and wiped a hand across his sweating face, but his eyes weren't concerned about the secret door. Jack watched as the man's eyes quickly darted to the desk once more and then just as quickly looked away. Collins saw that the desk sat in front of one of the basement walls, and beyond that wall one would assume was dirt and rock. As he looked back, Krueger was again sobbing, but once again he saw the man's dark eyes glance at the desk.

"Jesus, you've been a busy little thief, haven't you?" Mendenhall said as spotlights illuminated a treasure trove of ancient and not-so-ancient artifacts.

Collins and Everett stepped forward and looked at the commodity trader's extensive collection. There were special pieces sitting atop pedestals from the third and fifth dynasties of Egypt. Lights shone down on armor dating back to the days of Alexander. There were oil paintings from the Renaissance. Other displayed jewelry had been stolen from collections around the world. Crowns of kings long dead. Collins activated his com link.

"Recovery Three, you can bring the trucks in now."

Jack turned to Krueger, who was still being held by Will. He stepped up to him, raised his double chin, and looked him in his watery eyes.

"Your cooperation will be noted and the prosecuting authorities will be notified."

"But you're thieves! Why ... what--"

"To further enhance the chances your team of defense attorneys have of getting you acquitted, do wish to tell us about the second room now?"

The man's face drained of blood right before their eyes. His thick lips started to tremble and his eyes widened. All at once, he wasn't timid or frightened any longer; he was mad.

"You bastards, you're dealing with things beyond your concept!"