Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “Aren’t we all?” Charlotte said with a laugh. “Everyone has a secret.”

  Haven started. Felt a trill of warmth. Cole’s mom couldn’t possibly know. Could she?

  Charlotte motioned to the kitchen. “So, you said something about genealogy.”

  “Yes.” Haven slid into a padded shield chair at the dinette. “Cole was looking into it before he left, but he didn’t get to the French side.”

  “French?” Charlotte sat back as the butler brought over steaming tea and scones. “There isn’t a drop of French blood in Cole’s veins. My family was from Scotland and England. Eric’s is almost entirely from London. The Russells had a barony and quite a large estate there going back centuries.”

  Confused, Haven hesitated, recalling with perfect clarity the name Tzaddik had given—Giraude Roussel. French. Definitely French. “Knights.”

  “What—knights?” Charlotte laughed. “Oh yes. There were knights among Eric’s family. It was an arduous process to become a knight, to prove oneself to the crown.”

  “And Templars?”

  “Why on earth would you ask that?”

  Haven smiled. “I guess the last mission, with the historical elements and that knight who tried to find the crown, got me thinking . . .”

  “Show her the journal,” Eric said, walking through the dining area into the kitchen, where he poured a glass of water.

  “The journal!” Charlotte shoved up from her seat. “Of course. I haven’t thought of that old thing in ages.” She bustled through the halls.

  Eric gulped some water, then glanced at the glass, standing still and distracted. Completely unlike Eric Russell.

  “Is everything okay?” Haven asked.

  His gray-blue eyes came to her. “How is he?”

  Her heart melted, surprised at the undercurrent of sentimentality in that simple question. Haven smiled. “Fine. Last I heard.”

  “You brought him back once. I know you’ll do it this time.” He winked. “You want to get married, so pray him home. Charlotte can’t handle losing him again. None of us can.”

  “He knows I’d chase him to the grave,” Haven said with a grim smile. “He doesn’t take this new lease on life lightly. He’s determined to make the best of it.”

  “Then why’d he leave us again?” Without another word, Cole’s dad strode out of the kitchen.

  Deflating at both the hurt and anger she heard in his voice, Haven turned back to the table. To her untouched scone. To the glint of sapphire on her left ring finger. She thought of the gold band at home in the safe. Of the commitment made with it. Of the secret they could not share . . . until he returned. Yes, you’d better come back to me, Cole Russell.

  “I cannot believe I forgot about this.” Charlotte’s lighthearted voice drifted from the hall, preceding her by seconds. As she rounded the corner, she was brushing her fingers over aged leather. She passed it to Haven. “I imagine this will be a nice read for you until Cole returns.”

  The large journal had a thong wrapped twice around its width, tethered to a gorgeous green stone. Stamped into the walnut-colored leather was an emblem of an R, but behind it—“The Templar cross.”

  Charlotte drew back with an “Oh!” She huffed. “So it is. I don’t recall that being there. It could be a normal cross, you know.” Was she justifying? “English nobility were expected to patronize the king, who was the head of the church.”

  When the butler removed her scone and cold tea, Haven thanked him, then set down the journal and opened it. The press of years released, fanning the air with the indelible scent of ink, history, and a long legacy.

  The stiff, brittle pages seemed to resist her intrusion. What a marvel! Peering into Cole’s ancestry. Into men who had taken wives, who had borne children. Time blurred the inked years and names. Sketched on random pages were emblems, renderings of homes, faces. Which would soon surrender their secrets.

  12

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  After a two-hour delay, Ram watched the feed as Levi Wallace stepped through the door and held it for Dr. Cathey, who glanced back out into the hallway, then again to the command center. He shook his head, elevating the tension and buzzing of nerves in the room and feeds.

  “Where’d Tzaddik go?” Levi asked, shuffling to check outside.

  “He had other errands, apparently,” Dr. Cathey said.

  “Looks like things are about to get downright historical,” Thor said as he returned from the break room with a cup of black coffee.

  “Let’s get started.” Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency Dru Iliescu never wasted words or time. “We have a lot of irons in the fire and need to pull things together. Ram, you have information?”

  Ram sat forward. “I have it on good authority that the AFO might be a little distracted right now. They’re apparently on a search-and-destroy mission for an ancient sword.” He let his gaze hit Cathey.

  “Boom!” Cell said with a puff of his cheeks. “Missing artifact. Here we go, boys!”

  Ram continued. “My asset said the sword is in three pieces, but one has been found.” They all had to know what artifact it was. There could be no guessing. Not among those on this team.

  A chair groaned, drawing his gaze to Dr. Cathey’s haunted expression. “Ram.” His tone seemed burdened. “You are sure that’s what he said, that they are searching for it—a piece has been found?”

  Irritation scraped raw the wound that had festered in Ram for most of his life. “I wouldn’t mention it otherwise.”

  “No. No, of course not.” Dr. Cathey sounded hollow.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, professor,” Maangi noted.

  “A very large one, I’m afraid,” Dr. Cathey replied. “I heard from Mr. Tzaddik that, aside from strategic maneuvering on a global scale with governments and world powers, the Arrow & Flame Order has always had one goal.”

  “Wait.” Cell held up a hand, glancing around. “How’d we drop-kick this from a three-piece sword to the AFO?” he asked, rubbing his chest. “Not exactly fond of those arrow-shooting vermin.”

  Dr. Cathey inclined his head. “Mr. Tzaddik often goes on about the AFO and the one mission they always fail. One they have pursued at great cost and with much bloodshed.”

  Ram took a measuring breath as he stared at Dr. Cathey, whose forlorn expression mirrored his own. “To locate and control the sword of Goliath of Gath.”

  “We’re talking fee-fi-fo-fum Goliath? The giant?”

  “Cell,” Thor said. “That’s an English rhyme.”

  “About a giant. I’m just saying.” Undeterred, Cell dragged a tablet closer and started tapping away. “David and Goliath. Like from the Bible.” He stifled a smile. “This is right up our alley.”

  “You mentioned artifacts,” Robbie cut in, “so you’ve got my attention. Fill us in—what’s special about that sword?”

  Why did answering her questions feel like stepping off a cliff into a churning, boulder-strewn river? “It’s been the AFO’s veritable Holy Grail for centuries,” Ram said.

  “The AFO and this sword . . .” Almstedt leaned in, arms on the table as she narrowed her gaze. “Is that”—she shook her head, squinting—“somehow connected to the arrow serial killings? Because I’m not seeing it.”

  “The only connection is the AFO,” Dr. Cathey said.

  “That’s a phosphorous-big connection,” Cell muttered, his gaze on the tablet, intensely focused.

  “He’s right,” Robbie said. “And I’ll be hanged if I’m going to stand idly by while they strike at us again. Wallace, what have your people found out about the murders here?”

  Wallace shrugged. “Little. Congressman Seaton had a dozen different programs in the pike and many more he’d championed, including the FBI’s TAFFIP.”

  “Then what are you saying?” Robbie hesitated. “That the AFO isn’t behind the killings?”

  “Considering the means of the murders, I don’t think anyone would be foolish enough
to say that,” Levi said. “But the death of George Schenck has no apparent connection to the congressman or the killings in other countries. The only similarity is means of death. We can’t find a link between the victims.”

  “I noticed that, but I think there’s something we’re not seeing.” Almstedt slumped back in her creaky chair.

  “Agreed,” Iliescu said with a slow nod that built to a fervent one. “There’s a connection between the killings and Makanda’s work with the game—Blood Genesis. They are both singularly unique, both arising now.” His gaze hit Almstedt again. “You’re right. They’re connected. We just have to find out how.”

  Almstedt sighed, seemingly half-relieved, half-overwhelmed. “Okay, you heard the deputy director, Wallace—keep digging. If you find anything, keep us posted.” She turned and glanced down the command table. “Moving on. Mr. Tzaddik said the AFO’s long-range goal has always been this sword. What accelerated their timeline?”

  “I believe,” Dr. Cathey said finally, shifting, “this hunt for the Adama Herev—”

  “The what?” Cell propped his ankle on his knee.

  “The name of the sword the AFO is after,” Dr. Cathey explained.

  “It has a name?”

  “All great swords have a name,” Runt retorted.

  “The meaning”—Dr. Cathey slid his readers up onto his head to peer at them better—“loosely translated, is the ‘thirst for the blood,’ or ‘the thirst of steel.’”

  “So,” Thor muttered, “sword. We are talking about the one David used to kill Goliath, right?”

  Eyes on his tablet, Cell raised a hand. “Didn’t I already ask that?” Then he yanked his gaze up. “But wait. David used a slingshot to slay the giant. Didn’t he?”

  Dr. Cathey nodded. “Yes, David used his slingshot to fell Gulat, but then lifted the sword—which would’ve been a feat in and of itself, as the sword was purposed for Gulat, who is said to have been a giant, descended from or one of the Nephilim. Legends differ. He was to wield the Adama Herev against the Hebrews.” He lifted a finger. “Homer recorded a similar story about the battle of champions in the Iliad.”

  “Back that truck up,” Cell said, setting the tablet on the table. “I think . . . I think I might see a connection.” Sliding his thumb along the screen, he pointed down range to Wallace. “That senator who was killed . . .”

  “Seaton.”

  “Yeah.” Cell snapped his fingers. “Him. You said he was behind that fingerprint system.”

  “He sponsored it but didn’t create it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Cell wagged his hand in a circle. “But you see—that. I need to talk to Makanda again, but . . .” He drummed his thumb on the screen. “I think I might know why the AFO wanted his program.”

  “You have the floor, Mr. Purcell,” Robbie said.

  He looked at her, distracted, then glanced back at his tablet. “I mean—yeah, I need to look into this more, but the basis of Makanda’s game is these generated creatures.” He touched his fingertips together. “But when creatures meet and interact, the computer is detecting similarities between the two totally random creatures and then deciding a course of action based off that data.” He looked at them, a grin stuck on his face.

  “I’m sure that means something,” Thor grunted.

  “English,” Ram muttered. “We need that translated.”

  “The program aggregates data . . .” Cell’s smile fell. He narrowed his eyes. “Hm, maybe not.” He shifted and bent over the tablet. “I need to talk to Makanda.”

  Robbie nodded. “Work on it, Mr. Purcell.”

  “Wallace, how many stateside murders so far?” Ram shifted.

  Wallace’s jaw muscle popped a few times before he answered. “To date, two.”

  “And as mentioned before, there have been a smattering of them around the globe,” Robbie said. “I had another two tracked down in Europe, and I think we’ve found at least three more in Asia.”

  “Yeah,” Cell said, squinting, “and the most recent got splattered all over the news because it was that senator.”

  “Congressman.”

  “Right. Whatever. Politician. Same meat. He helped the FBI—” Hauling in a sharp breath, Cell jerked straight. Animated. “Wait-no-what!” He snatched up the tablet. “That program y’all use for fingerprinting, what is it? Tepid something.”

  “TAFFIP.”

  “Right!” Cell snapped his fingers again. “Twice As Fast or some bull.”

  “No bull.” Wallace seemed more annoyed than ever. “The program works.”

  Cell’s face was tied in knots of consternation. “How’s it work?”

  Wallace shrugged. “I’m an assistant special agent, not IT.”

  “Right.” Cell turned to Ram. “What if they’re using that to track down people and kill them?”

  With a barked laugh, Wallace shook his head. “How did you connect those dots?”

  Cell rubbed his chin. “Just seems interesting—Makanda’s got this program. The congressman that got killed championed a program—”

  “Along with umpteen dozen other bills,” Wallace challenged. “There are no connections between the victims, save that they are all male.” He shook his head, dripping disdain. “They didn’t know each other. Different appearances, ages, body types.”

  “Blood types,” Cell suggested.

  Shaking his head again, Wallace huffed. “TAFFIP doesn’t take blood. Only fingerprints.”

  But Cell had chomped onto this flank steak of an idea and wasn’t letting go. “This is connected. Soup Maker and the AFO sword hunt are linked. I can feel it.” His fingers danced over the tablet again. “It’s here somewhere. I need a full system.”

  “Reel it in, Purcell,” Almstedt ordered. “Let’s get back on track.”

  “Ram, professor,” Rodriguez said with a long-suffering sigh, “why does the AFO want this sword? And why the push? They seem to have a fire under them now.”

  Ram didn’t want to voice the truth, the reality of why the AFO was so obsessed with that sword. A truth that affected—infected—him.

  “There is a curse,” Dr. Cathey rejoined the conversation, “at least in Judaic tradition. Though the Bible mentions Goliath’s sword, it does not delve into the dark history of that sword, where it came from, as it doesn’t for many things.”

  “Fill us in, professor,” Runt said.

  “To explain the curse, we must step back to the origination of the sword.” Dr. Cathey glanced at a tablet. “While you were chatting, I scanned some articles. The very simplified version is this: During the time of wars between the Philistines and the Hebrews, a band arose that eventually gave rise to or were re-created as—there is debate over which—the Hashashin, the first assassins. Originally they were called the Niph’al. It is believed by some that the Philistines—of whom Goliath was descended—were essentially mercenaries. The Philistines were long at war with the Hebrews and could not wipe them out. So some of their sect colluded with the Niph’al to end what they saw as the Hebrew blight.”

  Dr. Cathey took a long, heavy breath, then let it out slowly before continuing. “The Niph’al were eventually absorbed into the Nizari Ismailis. Today, the Nizari are a branch of Shi’a Muslims who broke from the main line on the issue of succession. However, in their origin days, they developed a form of defense that led to their being known as the Hashashin—or assassins. Today, there are many of them in the Arrow & Flame.” He cocked his head in a crooked nod. “At least, that is the tale. There is an ongoing argument among scholars and clergy about whether Gulat was one of the Fallen, or if he was but a half-breed, a descendant.” He pursed his lips in another shrug. “Or perhaps he was simply a man grown too tall.”

  “The Fallen?” Thor barked a laugh. “Now it’s angels and demons?”

  Dr. Cathey considered them. “I was not there, so I cannot guarantee it, Mr. Thorsen, but I am sharing what the legends say. It’s lore. For you to hear and decide. But if these interruptions persist, you
will not hear and cannot decide. Now, do I have your ears?”

  “Pretty sure you have your own,” Thor taunted. He fist-bumped Maangi.

  “The sword, Dr. Cathey,” Rodriguez said as he shot the guys a glare. “Why now? Why . . . at all?”

  This was where things got tricky, and Ram wasn’t sure he wanted this information divulged. It was like filleting his own flesh.

  “Of course.” Dr. Cathey paused to take a sip from a water bottle. “As the Bible relates, the angels were cast down to Earth for their rebellion and attempt to seize power for themselves. Though running rampant and set violently against God’s greatest creation—mankind—the Fallen were still tethered to the will of God, which, for example, is why Lucifer needed God’s permission to test, or sift, His servant Job. It’s why the demons possessing the boy obeyed Jesus’s command to go into the herd of pigs, then ran them off the cliff. The Fallen have long sought to usurp authority here on Earth. Despite many attempts to wipe out God’s chosen, they have failed. So they devised a plan with the sword to enslave the Hebrews for all time.

  “Fast forward to the time of David and Goliath. The great irony is that nobody expected Goliath to be defeated, certainly not by a smelly shepherd boy. It’s said the early sect that would become the Nizari Ismailis made the sword for Goliath to use and enslave the Hebrews, but it backfired. He was such a formidable warrior, so they chose him to wield the Adama Herev. Some have speculated it was a battle of champions—Goliath versus David—a little-used form of battle to decide the victor.” He smiled and snickered. “Imagine the great shock when David felled the Philistine, then used the Adama Herev, which was meant to enslave David’s people, but instead—”

  “Enslaved the Philistines,” Runt finished.

  “Indeed. And some suggest the sect was placed under a curse as well for conspiring against God’s people by producing the sword.”

  “So,” Thor said, sitting straighter, elbows on the table, “why does the AFO want the sword? To . . . what? Free them from this”—he swung his hand in a circle—“curse?”