There were only a few lines underneath his dark-brown eyes, probably from the years of being on digs in sunny, hot places. The sun always made him squint. It was rare that he found a gray hair in the tussle of chocolate coloring on his head. Tommy smiled at his vanity and grabbed his keys off the table.
Tommy Schultz had founded the International Archaeological Agency a few years before. His parents had been fairly wealthy, and when they died suddenly, Tommy had inherited everything. His career in archaeology had barely begun when the accident happened. For a short time, he’d moped around, trying to find his life’s direction. Then the idea for the agency had come to him one night while sitting alone at a bar. A news story about treasure hunters played on the television. He began to wonder what it might be like if he started an agency that recovered ancient artifacts and returned them to the rightful governments. At that moment, he began planning the IAA.
He took a deep breath and suppressed the tear that was trying to sneak out of his right eye. It had been more than a decade since Tommy’s parents had died in the accident, but from time to time, memories crept into his mind.
Reaching over a chair, he grabbed his computer case from the table and headed for the door that led into the garage. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed through the dining room window that there was a car sitting in his driveway. Curious, he stopped and walked toward the glass to see what the vehicle was doing there. It wasn’t one that he recognized.
The auto was a gigantic Hummer, larger than most he’d seen. He wondered how anyone could drive such a large truck and still afford the gas prices. Odd, though. No one was inside it.
He frowned in confusion and walked back toward the front door of the house, half expecting to find the driver of the vehicle about to ring the doorbell. Suddenly, an arm wrapped around his neck from behind and squeezed tight.
From the shadows of the hallway, a tall blond man appeared wearing an English-style trench coat. “Hello, Mr. Schultz.” The voice sounded German.
“What the…” Tommy started to respond, but the arm around his neck pulled tighter, cutting off the air he needed to breathe and speak.
“It will all be explained to you later. For now, you must come with us.”
The tall man nodded, and again the arm squeezed harder. Lights and scenery started blending together in a blur. He felt a small prick of pain in his arm as a syringe injected something into his bloodstream. A cool feeling eased up his arm; it was only a few seconds before Tommy was unconscious.
Due to the odd morning hours that he went in to work, no one noticed the three men carrying Tommy’s limp body out to the truck and stuffing it in the back of the SUV.
3
Midtown Atlanta
“So, how does it affect your personal relationships to be gone so often? Must be difficult to make anything last with friends or romantic interests. Or maybe you prefer it that way.”
She looked at her victim in the khaki pants and olive green button-up jacket with a genuinely curious glance, even though the tone of her comment had been lathered in sarcasm. Her head was cocked to the side, a playful shimmer in her hazel eyes. The sounds of coffee grinders and cappuccino machines humming loudly in the background afforded no awkward silence.
Sean Wyatt sat, somewhat uncomfortably, across from Allyson Webster, journalist for the Atlanta Sentinel. He scratched his messy blond hair for a moment while considering her line of questioning. The noises and the people bustling about enjoying their morning java did nothing to ease his mind. She’d requested to meet with Wyatt to ask a few questions about the International Archaeological Agency, the driving force behind the construction of the Georgia Historical Center. In fact, most of the artifacts on display were pieces recovered by IAA agents, one of whom in particular had been involved on more of the recovery missions than most.
Sean was that agent, and Allyson wanted to speak to him regarding some of the inner workings of the IAA. After ordering two lattes, the two had sat down in a couple of large cushioned chairs in the corner of the coffee shop, preferring their interview remain at least a little private.
Sean had been hesitant about answering questions regarding his job. He didn’t feel like it was something glamorous the public wanted or needed to know about. There had been a few dramatic incidents, but nothing he felt the need to reveal to the readers of the Sentinel.
For a moment, he looked out the wall-sized window, lost in thought. Downtown Buckhead was busy with pedestrians and commuters hurriedly heading to work or other appointments. Across Peachtree Street, a woman in a cream-colored dress stood staring at a storefront window, oblivious to the morning pandemonium.
He sipped his drink, drawing out the seconds before answering. “Well, if you really want to know, I prefer it that way,” he replied with a wry smile.
“Really?” Her eyes squinted in suspicion.
“Yeah.”
“And why is that?”
“Because in my line of work, attachment is not a good thing. I’m hardly ever home. And when I am, it isn’t usually for very long; maybe a few weeks at a time. But I most definitely like it that way.”
“So you’re a loner?” she asked with a lifted eyebrow.
A slight snort came out of his nose to accompany the grin. “I guess I am.” He set the
