It was fascinating, and each time Lacroix read of a new breakthrough that had been successfully tested on one of their own, his heart raced in excitement. Treatments abandoned by the mainstream scientific community because of their adverse effects on a small percentage, were embraced, The Order’s thinking that those who it didn’t help were simply inferior genetically. Why should those who weren’t be denied this knowledge?
And that was the fundamental driving force behind The Order. To gather knowledge, all knowledge—medical, scientific, historical—it didn’t matter. The Order particularly prided itself on collecting forgotten knowledge, forbidden knowledge. Forgotten knowledge had been their mainstay hundreds of years ago when they were founded, but over the past fifty years so much knowledge and wondrous advances had been made and forgotten due to politics and poor funding priorities, they had taken it upon themselves to preserve and expand upon it.
Sometimes these scientists were brought within the fold, usually unwittingly, and if they showed the correct attitude toward The Order’s philosophies, sometimes invited inside. And sometimes, like with himself, you made it into the ultimate inner circle, the Circle of Eight, the ruling council of The Order. Unknown to the membership except as shadowy figures who were to remain anonymous, their directives absolute, to be followed to the letter, without question.
He himself had been a member of The Circle for almost ten years, chosen by his master as his replacement almost thirty years ago. He had trained, learned the history, learned the forgotten sciences, and sworn allegiance to an organization over six hundred years old, and more powerful and anonymous than any he knew to be in existence. They were a secret, an absolute secret. Those in The Circle were sworn to remain bachelors with no connections that they may betray their secrets to. They were responsible for choosing their own replacements before they died, the identities held secret until the day of their deaths when a secret messenger would deliver the identity, and the person, to the swearing in ceremony that occurred exactly seven days after death.
And today, this impromptu meeting over secure channels was because of him. Because of his error, his screw-up, his inability to control his sexual urges.
They’ll have you killed one day.
“Gentlemen. We have a problem. Or should I say, we once again have a problem, with Number Eight,” said Number One.
“Again?” asked another, his voice filled with the exasperation Lacroix was certain they all felt for him. Even he felt it about himself. If he remained sober, he was usually fine, but as soon as that first glass of wine or scotch graced his lips, he was drinking for the night, then determined to have female companionship, whether she willingly participated or not.
But in Geneva he had crossed a line.
And got caught.
“This is getting ridiculous,” said another.
“Agreed,” rumbled Number One. “How do you propose to solve this problem, Number Eight?”
Lacroix looked over his shoulder at the door that had remained closed since his apprentice had left.
Where is he?
He took a drink of water to moisten his suddenly dry mouth, then leaned toward the microphone sitting on his desk.
“I have an operative identifying all of the witnesses involved, and should have a report shortly.”
“And what do you intend to do?”
“They will be paid off, or otherwise encouraged to remain silent.”
“But there is something unique about this encounter, is there not?” rumbled Number One’s voice.
“Y-yes,” said Lacroix, his voice cracking at having to admit it to The Circle. “I had several of our files in plain sight, and they were seen.”
Cursing and other sounds filled his headset as The Circle erupted in anger. At that moment the door behind him opened and he turned to see his apprentice enter, a grave expression on his face. Lacroix motioned for him to hurry up.
His apprentice rushed over, handing him a file.
“We have a problem,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
He flipped through the folder and stopped on a page showing the Secret Service agent who had beaten him. His apprentice pointed lower on the page.
Oh shit!
“The usual payoffs will not be enough,” said one of The Circle. “They must be silenced.”
Lacroix cleared his voice, leaning in again.
“Gentlemen, we may have a bigger problem than I thought.”
“Explain,” said Number One.
“The men we thought were Secret Service aren’t.”
“Then what are they?”
“Delta Force.”
Stucco’s Residence, Maas Drive, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Stucco stood on the doorstep of his military issue residence, it a small, old, humble and perfectly adequate home that they could call their own while he was stationed in Fort Bragg. Most of the married guys in The Unit lived within a five minute walk of each other, the single guys either in barracks or off base in their own apartments.
But all close, all within shouting distance if anyone needed help with something, or just wanted to hang out and shoot the shit. Or shoot something. It was a family. A big family that extended far past The Unit, and far past the base. The military was a family. When one died, everyone hurt. When one did something heroic, they all felt the pride.
It was something that had been missing from his life, his own dad having abandoned him and his mother when he was three, only showing up a few times in his life, mostly to argue with his mother. But he hadn’t shown up when his mother had died, killed by a drunk driver. He had been ten. The rest of his life was spent bouncing from foster home to foster home, the system never able to find him parents willing to adopt a kid so old that was a “problem child”.
He had to admit it now that he was older and a father himself that he had been acting out. I was a holy terror! The hell he put those foster parents through wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t until he was sixteen when he was at yet another home, pulling the same shit, that the family’s eldest son had returned home from Afghanistan, all spiffy in his crisp Marine uniform, that he stood up and paid attention. The young marine sergeant had taken him under his wing for the four weeks he was visiting, then returned to Afghanistan.
And died.
Stucco had signed up the day he turned eighteen, opting for the Army, and eventually working his way up to Sergeant and a position in the Delta Force. It had been the proudest day of his life, and though he had no parents to share his success with, he had found the woman of his dreams, Sheila, and they had married between tours in Iraq, and about a year later, little Christa was born. She was six now, tall enough to answer the doorbell he had rung, but there was no answer.
Odd.
It was a ritual. He’d come back from an op and surprise them on the doorstep. Christa had always delighted in the surprise, and Sheila too. It had started with a forgotten key, and the joy on their faces had made it something he wanted to see every time he came home, so now he never unlocked the door himself.
He always waited for them to answer.
But it was never this long.
He rang again, checking the driveway for the umpteenth time.
The car’s still there!
He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing.
He shrugged his shoulders. It wouldn’t be the first time they hadn’t been home when he got back. With the wives a close knit family when their husbands were off on ops, it wouldn’t surprise him if they were off with one of the other families in the park.
He fished his key from his pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open. He stepped inside and could smell something amazing wafting its way from the kitchen.
“Hi hon, it’s me! You home?”
He heard a sound in the kitchen and dropped his duffel bag in the entrance, kicking off his shoes as he made his way down the hall toward the tiny seventies style kitchen, Sheila’s one complaint about their home.
/> He turned the corner and cried out at what he saw.
Colonel Thomas Clancy’s Office, 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
A.k.a. “The Unit”
“You realize the shit storm you’ve created for me, Sergeant Major?”
Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson nodded as he stood at attention, his boss, Colonel Thomas Clancy sitting behind his desk, barking at him while he had a pencil tightly clamped between his teeth as he continued to battle his addiction to cigars. It flicked up and down with each syllable, a constant distraction that if it weren’t for the verbal tirade the pencil seemed to be conducting, it might be comical.
“Yes, sir!” he replied, realizing full well what was going on, the State Department representative standing to the right of Clancy almost smiling in glee.
“What the hell were you two thinking getting involved in a civilian situation like that?” Clancy held up his hand. “Don’t answer that! I know damned well what you were thinking! Nothing! You weren’t thinking a damned thing! You were acting on instinct, just like we trained you! To protect innocent lives, wherever they may be! I understand that! Don’t you think I understand that? But that wasn’t your job! Your job was to protect the Secretary of State! Not a hotel maid”—Dawson decided not to correct him—“then assault one of the most powerful men in the world!” Clancy sucked in a lungful of air then ripped the pencil from his mouth, tossing it aside. “You and your team are suspended from duty until this mess is straightened out. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Now get out of my office!”
“Yes, sir!”
Dawson snapped a salute for show, then spun on his heel and exited the room, closing the door behind him. He winked at the smiling Maggie, Colonel Clancy’s longtime secretary, who knew exactly what was going on.
A show for the State Department.
Clancy would never actually punish men in his unit for saving a woman from a rapist. Dawson was already scheduled for a second meeting once the State Department rep had left. He made his way to the cafeteria and grabbed a bottle of water. Chugging half of it down, his phone buzzed.
Stucco?
He would have figured the young husband would be well into some post-op nookie by now, not calling his “boss”.
“Hey, Stucco, what’s up?”
“BD! You gotta help me!”
Dawson tossed his bottle in the sink, rushing for the door, the panic in his friend’s voice obvious.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know what to do! My wife, my kid, oh my God, BD! I think it’s him. It has to be. It has to be that bastard Lacroix!”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“You gotta help me, BD!”
There was a scream in the background that sounded like a woman’s.
“Oh no!”
The line went dead.
Dawson raced toward the parking lot, speed dialing Red, his trusted friend and second in command.
Red’s groggy voice answered. “Hey, BD, can’t a man sleep after an op?”
“Something’s wrong at Stucco’s. Just got a weird call from him and heard Sheila scream. Get a team together, meet me there, and let the Colonel know what’s going on. I’m on my way now.”
“Consider it done,” came the alert reply.
Dawson jumped in his 1964½ poppy red Mustang convertible and started it up, gunning it toward the married quarters and his friend.
Köln, Germany
1472 AD
Dietrich held Heike’s hand, their fingers intertwined as they pushed their way up the steep road to her father’s house, perched on the hillside with a spectacular view of the Rhine river below. It was dark now, a little light provided by the mostly blocked out stars and a half moon, as well as the candle and firelight from inside the homes spilling out the cracks in the shuttered windows, lending a sheen to the quickly dampening cobblestones.
Another sound behind them and Dietrich turned. His heart raced up his throat as he saw a dark robed figure following them.
He urged Heike forward.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Let’s just get you inside before it starts to rain.”
She thankfully picked up her pace without further question, and he could tell by the tightening of her grip on his hand that she too was now frightened. More footsteps behind them and he broke out into a run without looking. As they passed each alleyway he would look down it and see another robed figure stepping out, and looking ahead he could see between each house a figure coming into view. Before they could reach the top of the hill a line of darkly robed figures blocked their way on all sides except their left, where a waist high wall protected pedestrians from the roaring river fifty feet below.
As they closed in upon them, Dietrich pulled the only weapon he had, a dagger, and moved toward the only wall without members of The Order blocking their way. He looked over the side at the river below, and knew it was too treacherous to attempt a jump. The rocks below, mostly hidden, the rushing water breaking upon their concealed stubbornness, seemed to glow a warning of their presence in the faint light.
The robed figures closed in on them as he held Heike behind him, his dagger held out in a useless threat, his arm trembling so much the blade threatened to clatter to the ground.
None of the approaching figures had any weapons displayed, but he knew they would be armed. They always were when robed. For they were The Order, of that he had no doubt.
He did the only thing he could think of.
“Master, if you are here, please listen. I told her it was over. We had one last kiss and I was bringing her home. Please, let her go, she has done nothing wrong.”
The Order were shoulder to shoulder now, forming a semi-circle of impenetrable human flesh, there now being nowhere to go but over the wall at their backs.
The figures parted and a lone figure stepped through, the ranks closing behind him as he stepped forward, stopping only inches from Dietrich’s outstretched dagger.
A hand reached forward, and he recognized it as his master’s immediately, a deep scar on the top from years ago revealed as the sleeve of the robe slipped up.
Dietrich relinquished the blade without protest, Heike gasping behind him.
“Master, please. I beg of you, let her go. She is but an innocent in this and knows nothing of us.”
His master put a hand on his shoulder, applying gentle but firm pressure, his intent clear. Dietrich stepped aside, leaving his master to face Heike as he still clasped her hand. She looked up at his master, tears of fear rolling down her flushed cheeks. He wished it were daylight so his master could see her brilliantly blue eyes, her golden hair, her impossibly pure skin. Surely then he couldn’t harm a hair on her childlike self.
But it was dark.
It was damp.
And all that could be seen were the shadows, all that could be heard were her sniffles and the roar below. His master caressed her cheek with his left hand, approaching her so they were mere inches apart. She looked up at him, her neck bent back far, his height imposing even to Dietrich. A glint of moonlight revealed a frightened attempt at a smile from her, and nothing from his master.
Please God, help her!
Suddenly his master stepped forward, shoving her with both hands over the barrier. She screamed, as did Dietrich, spinning to try and brace himself on the wall, his left hand still holding hers, her gloved fingers slipping. He tried to reach around with his other hand but felt an iron grip on his forearm. He struggled, but all he could do was watch the terror in his darling Heike’s eyes as she hung on, looking up at him as they both eyed the silk slowly flowing from his fingers.
Then there was none.
She fell, a final blood curdling scream cut off as her body was dashed on the rocks below. He spun around and rushed through the already parting members of The Order, racing down the hill to where he could see the river again and arrive
d just in time to watch her body slip along the water before it rounded a bend in the river and disappeared forever out of sight.
Footsteps behind him caused him to jump and spin in rage, his fist raised. He felt the dagger at his stomach, and he didn’t care. All he wanted right now was to die so that he might be with her at her side as they entered Heaven and the afterlife.
“Now you can focus on your studies.”
The dagger was tossed over the side and into the river below as his master walked away, leaving him to cling to the wall, sobbing at his loss, and how he alone was to blame.
Inside Stucco’s Residence, Maas Drive, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“Okay, just stay calm, honey, and I’ll figure a way out of this.”
Stucco’s wife didn’t seem convinced. And he didn’t blame her. She was duct taped to a chair by her ankles, wrists and upper chest. And his precious baby, only six years old a few weeks ago, was taped to a second chair in the same manner, both back to back, the chairs taped together as one.
With enough C4 taped to his wife’s chest to take out the entire house and then some.
The bomb had just beeped a moment ago while he was on the phone with Dawson, eliciting a scream from his wife and wails from his daughter.
You have to calm yourself down. Treat it like a mission.
He sucked in several deep breaths, closing his eyes, regaining control of himself as he tried to push away the thoughts of losing his family.
This is no different than any other op, so treat it that way.
He opened his eyes.
“Okay, everything is going to be fine,” he said in a perfectly monotone voice. “I need you both to remain calm and quiet as I take a look at things.” He looked at Christa. “Can you do that for daddy?”
She nodded, her wailing stopping as she tried to stifle her sobs.
“Good. Now you need to be brave for mommy, and I’m going to take a look, okay?”
She nodded.
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 3