Circle Series 4-in-1

by Ted Dekker

She rested her forehead against his chest. Then she kissed his neck and held him tight, crying.

  It was her shame again, he thought. She still couldn’t understand or accept his love. His heart ached, but he could only hold her and hope that she loved him as much as he loved her.

  “You’ll stay?”

  “Promise me you’ll come back for me.”

  “I promise. I swear it on my life.”

  33

  MIKIL AND Thomas made it within a few miles of the Horde city before collapsing for badly needed rest. The moment Thomas fell into sleep, he awakened.

  Washington, D.C.

  He’d slept the night in the White House, but he’d lived . . . Thomas counted them off in his mind, one, two, three, four . . . four days in the desert, rescuing Chelise. To what end? To return to the city alone.

  To end up here, in this mess of a world. He was tempted to knock himself out and return to the larger matter at hand. Chelise.

  He forced his mind to focus on this world. He’d learned some things about Carlos and the Frenchman, hadn’t he? Yes, from Johan.

  The reality of the virus swelled in his mind. They were down to a couple of days. Carlos was the key.

  He swung his legs to the floor, walked to the door, and stopped short with the sudden realization that he hadn’t pulled on his jeans. Wouldn’t do to run through the White House in blue-striped boxer shorts.

  He dressed, brushed his teeth with a disposable toothbrush he found in the bathroom, and exited the room.

  It took him seven minutes to gain a private audience with the president. Chief of Staff Ron Kreet ushered Thomas into a small sitting room adjacent to the Oval Office. “I don’t know what you think you can do, and I can’t say I’m a big believer in dreams,” Kreet said, “but at this point I would take anything.” He raised his eyebrow. “You’re aware of the riots?”

  “What riots?”

  “Mike Orear from CNN said some things last night that sparked the crowd. They stormed the grounds. By the time the army had the situation under control, ten people were killed. Another seventeen in cities across the country.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not exactly a time for jokes. The president has addressed the nation twice since the riots began, both times with Orear. Things are quiet for the moment, relatively speaking. But fires are burning out of control in Southern California.”

  “What did he tell them?”

  Kreet walked to the door and opened it. “He told them that the United States would cooperate fully with France’s demands.”

  The chief of staff hadn’t yet closed the door when Robert Blair showed. “Thank you, Ron. I have it from here.”

  He stepped in and closed the door behind his back. Blair wore a yellow tie with a blue paisley print, loose at an open collar. His hair was disheveled, and large dark rings hung from both eyes.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. “Ron told you about the riots?”

  “It’s just the beginning,” Thomas said. “Are we secure in here?”

  “I had the room scanned thirty minutes ago.”

  “And?”

  “Microphone in the lampshade.”

  Thomas nodded. At least the president was taking all of this seriously. “How’s the rest of the world holding up?”

  Robert Blair sighed and walked to a navy blue wing-backed chair. “I have to sit. Where to begin? Suffice it to say that if we do find a way out of this mess, the damage to the world’s economies, cities, infrastructures, militaries—you name it—will take a decade to recover from, best case. Loss of life from collateral damage could reach into the hundreds of thousands if full-scale riots break out after this goes down tomorrow. The virus has started to flex its muscles—you do realize that.”

  Thomas sat stunned by this last piece of information. “The symptoms, you mean? I thought we had another five days . . . a week.”

  “Well, we were wrong. Evidently the first symptom is a rash. It’ll last a few days with any luck, but the team that went to Bangkok has already been hit.” He glanced at Thomas’s shirt. “You?”

  Thomas felt his side. “Last night . . .” He’d noticed a faint rash after waking in Bancroft’s laboratory, but not like Kara. “My sister has definite symptoms of the virus.”

  “And so does Monique. Gains . . . the whole team that went to Bangkok. There’ve been thousands of cases reported in Thailand and now in several other gateway ports. It’s a matter of hours before we get hit here.”

  The conclusion of this matter suddenly struck Thomas as inescapable. Until now, the Raison virus had been a blip on a computer screen. Now it was a red dot of rash. In a matter of days it would turn internal organs to liquid.

  He stood. “There’s no time—”

  “Please sit down,” Blair said in a tired but resolved voice.

  Thomas sat.

  “Did it work?”

  “In a matter of speaking, yes. Johan dreamed as Carlos. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember as much as I would have hoped.”

  “But he . . . got into his mind . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “And?” the president pushed.

  “And I’m almost certain that Fortier has no intention of giving you an antivirus that works.”

  “So we were right.”

  “Johan also seemed to think that the number of people who ended up surviving the virus would be much smaller than anyone imagines. My guess is that Fortier is planning on turning his back on both Russia and China as well as most of the nations who’ve capitulated at this point.”

  “Son of a . . .” The president closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Of course. What else did we expect?”

  Thomas stood again. “Which means that I’ve got to get back to France as soon as possible. Today. Now.”

  “You really think you have a chance at this?”

  “I have to reach Carlos. I know where he was last night; I’ve been there before. Fly me in at low level while it’s dark and I have a shot of getting in. Our best shot at the antivirus is to make Carlos dream with me. If Carlos wakes up in Johan’s mind, we’ll have a chance of winning him over.”

  The president slowly ran his hands over his face and then pushed himself up. “Okay. You’re right, but this could be the end. We’re out of time.”

  Thomas lowered his voice. “I’m assuming you won’t give them the nuclear weapons.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “The Israelis—”

  “They agreed.”

  Thomas walked toward the door. “Then get me to France.”

  The mood at Genetrix Laboratories had shifted visibly in the last twenty-four hours. The end was at hand, and they all knew it.

  The researchers couldn’t hide the sudden appearance of red spots. The Raison Strain.

  They wore long-sleeve shirts and blouses and slacks, but the rash on their necks was starting to show above their collars. Hope for an antivirus was evaporating as the rash spread. Monique herself still showed no rash, but she could feel her skin crawling, ready to break out at any moment.

  Thomas had called for Kara, who’d spent only a few minutes with him before he’d been whisked off somewhere. Kara was returning as soon as a chopper became available. She had nowhere else to turn other than New York, where her mother lived, but she didn’t want to leave the immediate area for two reasons, she’d said. One, in case Thomas needed her—for what, Monique could no longer imagine, but she was glad for Kara’s company, regardless.

  The second reason was more obvious.

  Monique rose from her desk and walked to the freezer. The small vial of Thomas’s blood rested on the top shelf by itself. She took it out and closed the door.

  With this blood she and Kara might find life. It seemed absurd, but she’d experienced this particular stripe of absurdity once before, and she would gladly do it again. They would wait until the last moment, of course. After Thomas had finished whatever he was up to, Kara had said. Then they wou
ld apply this blood to their own, take some Valium, and dream a dream that lasted for as many years as they could manage.

  She sat down at her desk and turned the glass vial in her fingertips. What was so special about this particular blood? Dr. Bancroft had run it through the lab at Johns Hopkins, and it had come back with no unusual traits. No elevated white counts, no unusual levels of trace elements . . . nothing.

  Just red blood. Red blood that brought new life.

  She absently flicked the tube. A thought occurred to her.

  The door opened and Mark Longly stuck his head in. “The reports from the Bangkok lab just came in.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Your father wants you to call him after you’ve looked at them, but I don’t see anything.”

  “Antwerp?”

  “Just got off the phone with them. Nothing new. UCLA has isolated a seventh pair in the string they’re developing—it reacts in a fashion consistent with the others, but they’re at least a week away from knowing what they have.”

  Monique nodded. “Cross their data with the strand from Antwerp again, see what—”

  “Already have.” He stared at her blankly. They’d been through a hundred similar conversations in the last week. Always nothing. Or if it was something, it was a something that meant nothing within the time they had.

  “No use giving up now,” she said.

  Mark tried to smile, but it came off twisted. He closed the door.

  Monique returned her thoughts to the vial. You are my salvation. She stood and walked to the freezer. Before she put herself under whatever power this blood had to offer, she would have a look at it herself.

  But for now, she had a virus to defeat.

  Or not to defeat.

  34

  MIKIL PRESSED her blade against the Scab’s neck. “Not a sound and you will live.”

  She’d taken the man from behind, and Thomas knew that she had no intention of cutting him, but she looked as though she might like to.

  “Nod your head!”

  The man nodded vigorously.

  Thomas walked around him and looked into his eyes. They’d crossed the desert in less than a day and then rested five miles from the city before finding their messenger, a lone sentry who’d been posted on the main road leading in from the west. His white face shone in early morning moonlight. “We aren’t going to hurt you, man,” Thomas said. He lifted his hands. “See, no sword. Mikil has a blade, but really it’s mostly for show. We only need a favor from you. Do we have your attention?”

  The guard didn’t move.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Albertus,” the man whispered.

  “Good. If you don’t do what we ask, I’ll know what to tell Qurong. My name is Thomas of Hunter. You’ve heard of me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then you’ll go straight to the castle, wake Qurong, and deliver a message. Tell him that I will turn myself in for the twenty-four albinos he’s captured. Bring them to the orchard two miles west of the Valley of Tuhan and I will give myself up. Mikil will take the albinos, and Qurong can have me in their place. Do you understand?”

  The guard had settled. “You in exchange for the others they brought in.”

  “Yes. When did they arrive?”

  “Last night.”

  “They are in the dungeons?”

  “Yes. And the guard has been increased.”

  Thomas glanced at Mikil. They’d expected as much. Any attempted rescue would be a different matter this time.

  “We’ll be watching. Tell Qurong not to think he can outwit us. A fair exchange or nothing. I want them on horses.” He nodded at Mikil. “Release him.”

  Mikil let the man go. He rubbed his neck and stepped away.

  “Ride, man.”

  “If I leave my post—”

  “Qurong will give you a reward for this, you fool! You’re delivering his enemy. Now ride!”

  The guard ran to his horse, mounted quickly, and rode into the night.

  “Now what?” Mikil asked.

  “Now we wait at the orchard.”

  The tribe had fallen for his ploy so easily that Woref had delayed his attack for several hours. But the camp slept in perfect peace, unsuspecting of another assault so soon.

  His earlier instructions had been very pointed: kill only a few, capture as many as you can, and leave the rest alive with the message. Do not pursue them. Take the captives to the city, but wait for me with a full division.

  As he’d hoped, the albinos had assumed that the Horde had taken what they’d come for.

  Wrong. So very wrong.

  Woref had arrived midday. He knew the tribe would call Thomas of Hunter in immediately. He knew that Chelise would be with Thomas. The fact that Thomas had left to rescue the twenty-four albinos in the city was now of no consequence. Woref would soon have the one prize he desired.

  He closed his eyes and rolled his neck. He could almost taste her skin on his tongue now. A coppery taste. Like blood. Blood lust. Teeleh would want to see her tonight, he thought. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he fully expected the creature to gloat. Woref shivered with anticipation.

  Odd how his passions and those of the winged serpent had somehow become one. He was complicit with Teeleh; he accepted that now. But he was serving his own interests. Frankly, he wasn’t sure who was serving whom. When he became the supreme leader of the Horde, he would need the kind of power Teeleh could give him.

  But first . . .

  He opened his eyes and stared into the night. First he would possess the firstborn’s daughter. He would possess her and he would ravage her. She would love him. If he had to beat her love from her with his fist, she would love him. He would have to be subtle at first, naturally. Teeleh was as much about subtlety as he was about brute force. Patience. But in the end she would be his and his alone.

  Woref turned to the captain. “If a single one of these albinos is killed, I will drown the man who does it. They understand that? Our objective here is to liberate Qurong’s daughter. We can’t risk killing her with a stray arrow.”

  “And afterward?”

  “I’ll decide.”

  He looked down at the camp again. She was in the third tent from the left. Unless she’d moved during the night, which was unlikely but possible. His men had been known to miss more than he cared to admit.

  “They are in position?”

  “We have a ring around the camp. There is no possible escape.”

  “I’ve heard those words before.”

  “This time I’m sure.”

  Woref grunted. “After me.”

  He dropped over the ledge and approached the line of men who lay in wait along the canyon floor. They’d painted their faces black, and in their dark battle dress they looked like creatures of the night. The Horde rarely attacked at night because of their fear of Shataiki. Odd, all things considered. But the black bats were too busy preying on the minds in the city to wander out into these canyons.

  Woref dropped to one knee at the front of the line and studied the tents. Not a stir. All that remained was to draw the noose tight enough to prevent escape.

  “Slowly.”

  He stood and stepped toward the camp. High on his right, the captain gave the signal to the rest of the ring. Cautiously, so that their boots would make little sound on the sand, six hundred warriors closed in on the tribe.

  Woref stopped twenty yards from the first tent and raised his hand.

  Not a sound. His heart pounded. The warriors on the far side of the camp had taken a signal and stopped with him. Even if the albinos saw them now, their fate was sealed.

  The third tent. His white whore was there, sleeping in an albino’s tent. Tonight she would learn the meaning of respect. Tonight a whole new world would be opened up to her. His world.

  Woref grabbed a tall sickle from the warrior behind him. “Stay,” he ordered softly.

  He walked deliberately toward the camp
, leaving his men behind. When he reached the third tent, he spread his legs, lifted the sickle, and swung it through the edge of the canvas. The blade sliced through the fabric and the center pole as if they were made of paper. He grabbed the collapsing wall and ripped it aside.

  There lay a woman, eyes still closed. A Scab. His whore.

  Woref reached down, took a fistful of her hair, and jerked her off the ground. She woke with a scream, eyes wide in terror.

  “That’s it, dear wife. Let the world know your pleasure.”

  Chelise grabbed at his hands futilely. Her wails shattered the still night. Tent flaps flew open, and albinos stumbled out like rats from their dens.

  The Horde army didn’t move.

  Woref dragged Chelise to the edge of the camp, hauled her up so she could stand, and spun back. The albinos were already in full motion, scurrying for an escape. Let them. They would run into warriors within a few strides.

  “No one takes what is mine!” he shouted. “No one!”

  “Johan, the eastern route is blocked,” a voice cried.

  Martyn?

  His warriors were still awaiting his signal—to kill or not to kill.

  Woref spun Chelise around and clubbed her on the temple with his left hand. Her wails fell quiet and she sagged. He released her hair and let her fall in a pile.

  “Martyn!” His voice rang through the canyon. “Martyn steps forward or I will kill every soul.”

  “We don’t need your threats to motivate us,” Martyn said, walking in from Woref ’s left. “You’ve been threatening us for a year already.”

  Martyn looked odd without his white eyes and skin. Puny. Sickly.

  “This is the mighty general? You look ridiculous, my old friend.”

  “And you look like you could use a good bath.”

  Woref wasn’t sure what to make of the man. The dark woman they’d taken captive earlier stepped up beside Martyn. His fortune was far greater than he could have hoped for. In one night he would claim his bride and slaughter Johan, leaving Thomas to weep on his own.

  “I’ve reclaimed what is mine, and now I will take pleasure in watching you die.”

  He lifted his hand.