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FIFTY-SEVEN
Head pounding, Chance woke up in his motel room. Cabin. Whatever. He had no idea how he’d made it back. He didn’t remember anything except those moments with Darth Maul. The man had left him with that photograph—only God knew how he’d gotten his hands on it—and that name. Chance had exited the bar out the back. Escaped the deputy and hobbled to his temporary dwelling.
He had to get out today. His time was up here. But maybe not his luck.
He had a name now. He still wasn’t sure how Darth Maul had figured it out.
An incredulous laugh escaped. His laugh grew larger. Louder. He was sure he would wake the neighbors in the nearby cabin.
Chance turned his thoughts to Baghdad.
The name? Anthony Gray.
Anthony “Tony” Gray had been Chance’s copilot and gunner. Before that, they’d grown up in the same county in Montana. Then they ended up serving in the same platoon in basic. They attended flight school together and were stationed together. Brothers-in-arms forever, it would seem.
After the initial shock and awe of the campaign, they were stationed near Baghdad. Chance couldn’t remember how he ended up following Tony that night. They moved stealthily through the smoldering courtyard, expended RPGs and Iraqi soldier uniforms scattered everywhere. The Iraq Museum had been used by the soldiers as a fighting position, then when they scattered, the looting began. An inside job. Professionals. Then everyone else.
Tony led him beneath a hand-scrawled warning, “Death to all Americans and Zionist pigs,” and down the halls. Others were working. Flashlights shining. Mumbles and shouting. The sense of urgency. They passed hundreds of display cases. Hundreds that were nearly empty.
Tony slowed and sidled next to Chance. “We need to help them.”
“How do we stop this?”
“No, I mean help them. I’m thinking of my wife, my parents back home. They could use a few nice things.”
“You’re not saying...”
“I am saying. What’s the harm in a few items being put on display to be seen rather than stolen and lost forever?” Tony’s justification sounded reasonable.
Chance followed him down a set of stairs. He should have stopped following the guy, but Tony was larger than life. Charismatic, and sure, Chance would blame Tony for drawing him in to his reasonable cause of not letting the looters get it all.
“Where are we going?” The way Tony led him, Chance knew the guy had already been there and checked it out.
Tony shined his flashlight along a dark stairwell.
Chance felt like he was going into a dungeon from which he would never return. “I think we should go back.”
Tony grabbed him and shoved him through the huge metal doors that were open for anyone to enter. Stuff—Chance didn’t have a name for all the items—lay sprawled all over the floor.
“See?” Tony said. “The good stuff is probably gone. But this is worth something. Grab a box and start picking it up. If you don’t, someone else will. We’re the heroes here.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“Then hold the flashlights while I do,” Tony growled.
Chance couldn’t leave his friend. He could end up killed in here. And staying would only mean he was complicit in the crime. Tony made it sound like it wasn’t, but Chance knew deep down it was a war crime. “If it’ll get us out of here faster, I’ll help.”
Tony grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
As the days changed to weeks, their efforts shifted to looting from the many unprotected archaeological sites. Looters crawled over them like thousands of ants, digging, pilfering, plundering. And Tony and Chance were among them. Tony had developed a system for moving the items out through a complicated network of handlers rewarded for their efforts. Chance had never wanted in, and he couldn’t figure out how to extricate himself from the trafficking or from his gunner. Until the last item.
Tony opened the box for Chance. “This is our last job. The last one we’ll ever need to do.”
Chance stared down at the item—a gold diadem, a crown of sorts. Mesh with a lot of jewels. Chance didn’t know what the jewels were, but Tony did. He had been studying. Doing his homework. Chance dropped onto the edge of his bunk. All their years together and this, this was the straw to break the brotherhood. “No. I’m done. I can’t do this. Tony ... I have a bad feeling. Please don’t do this.”
“I can’t do this alone. I can’t move this piece without your help. Without you covering me. You said you had my back.”
Chance scraped both hands through his sweaty, dirty hair. “I never wanted to be part of this. You have to return this. Give it back. Hand it over.”
“Are you nuts?”
He had no choice but to get up and walk out on Tony. The pain of what Tony was doing, of what Chance had let his friend do and been complicit in, knifed through him. A thousand stabs to his heart.
That night, Tony tried to move the object on his own, without Chance accompanying him, covering for him. He recruited someone else, and that person ratted Tony out. Chance heard Tony was supposed to be court-martialed, but the helicopter delivering him crashed and he was killed.
Chance returned home to his family in the US, but the shame and guilt followed him. Mere months later, someone sent images of him smuggling artifacts, along with a message: I know what you did. Your secret is safe with me. Your family is safe too, as long as you cooperate.
His family had been threatened, so Chance agreed to deliver a few packages here and there to add to his load, no questions asked, if his family would be left out.
Eventually, he realized his life as he knew it would need to end—for his family’s sake. He disappeared and created a whole new identity.
