Threshold

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Amazing,” Davidson said. “Are there theories about how they move?”

  “Heavy rain coupled with high winds is the best I’ve heard of,” King said.

  “Perhaps wind alone is enough?” Davidson said. “If stone can be affected by sound, such as with a golem, perhaps there is a rock formation that produces a certain tone at the right frequency, something that sends a simple command: move! Has anyone looked at the stone’s microscopic structure?”

  “They didn’t talk about that on our family vacation,” King said.

  Alexander began switching off the lab equipment. “If there’s nothing else, I think we should be go—”

  “We’re not going anywhere yet,” King said, wondering how much more Alexander had planned without his knowledge. “You may think the world is your playground, that you have the right to go anywhere, do anything, and treat the human race like game pieces, but you don’t. I, on the other hand, represent the wishes of the president of the United States, a man with real power and authority in this world. And I am in charge of this mission. Not you.”

  A darkness consumed Alexander’s face. He turned to King, staring him down with eyes that showed a desire to kill. King had no doubt it had been a long time since someone spoke down to him, and he did not take it well. But King didn’t falter. Instead, he turned his eyes away from Alexander’s glare and looked at Davidson. “Is there anything more to glean from these stones?”

  “I … I would need more samples. Different samples.”

  “Like this?” came a deep voice from the darkness at the end of the warehouse. A figure emerged holding a glass jar. Inside it was a lump of gray material. The man holding it was Bishop. Queen and Knight followed him.

  King greeted the others with a nod. He had made a call to Deep Blue shortly after leaving the hotel, requesting the team’s deployment to Israel. He knew they would arrive quickly thanks to the Crescent and had left his cell phone on so they could track his location. With the majority of his team present, he felt a renewed calm and measure of control return to the situation. This King was a pawn to no man, even one who couldn’t be killed.

  Alexander glared at King and with a raised voice said, “You had no right to bring them here without my knowledge.”

  “You seemed to have access to privileged U.S. intelligence. I thought you would know.”

  Alexander lost his patience and stomped toward King. Davidson ducked out of the way.

  King didn’t flinch as Alexander stopped inches from his face. “Do I detect a hint of megalomania?” King poked him in the chest, purposely instigating a reaction. He had a point to make. “Don’t like not being in control, do you … little man.” He punctuated the statement with one last poke to the chest.

  When the punch came, King was expecting it. He ducked to the side, feeling the breeze of Alexander’s fist pass his face. The fist smashed into a metal support beam behind King. A loud clang accompanied by the crack of breaking fingers rang in King’s ear. The missed blow would have normally been enough for King to take the upper hand in any fight, but Alexander didn’t react. Nor did he react to the perfectly placed punch King delivered to his side. Instead he took King’s arm, spun him around and pinned him against the support beam. The impact split King’s lip and the pressure on his arm would soon snap it. He fought against the pain.

  “Don’t be stupid. You can’t win this fight alone,” King said.

  The pressure increased.

  “And your secrecy is compromising my mission.”

  “Your mission? You’re a fool to think yourself my equal,” Alexander said between clenched teeth.

  “I don’t consider myself your equal,” King said. “But unlike you, I’m not alone.”

  The barrel of a handgun tapped against the back of Alexander’s skull. “Hey,” Queen said. “Remember me? We met a few years ago. I never did get a chance to thank you for the help, but if you mess with my boy here, I’m going to thank you by putting a bullet in the back of your skull. And please don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m incapable of hacking off that handsome head of yours and burying it in the sand.”

  Alexander tensed for a moment before releasing King. He stepped back and eyed Queen. “I do remember you. You’re as charming as Rook.”

  King saw Queen tense. The confrontation between him and Alexander had been brewing and needed to be worked out. But Alexander would regret lighting this fuse with Queen. “Any word on him?” King asked, stepping in.

  Queen looked at him. “Not a peep.”

  King turned back to Alexander. “You’re welcome to stay on with us, but you need to toe the line. If I sense you working another angle from this point on, I’ll drop you from the team.”

  Alexander stared at King for several seconds before smiling. “You’re lucky I like you, King. I agree to your terms.”

  The look in the man’s eyes revealed the agreement would last only as long as it continued to serve his needs, but King was okay with that. The reverse was true as well. He needed Alexander’s knowledge and resources to track down and stop Ridley, but when they’d accomplished that, he would leave the man behind.

  Seeing the confrontation ebb, Davidson stepped forward. “Um, excuse me, but did you say you had a new sample?”

  Bishop handed him the jar full of gray material.

  “Is this from a golem?” Davidson asked.

  “Formerly known as Richard Ridley,” Knight said. “Now known as Richard Hunk-of-clay.”

  Davidson’s eyes grew wide. “This had a name? It was a … a human golem? Made of clay?”

  Knight gave a nod.

  “Fully human?”

  “Until he turned to clay,” Bishop said. “Before that he seemed to have all the intellect, memories, and personality of the actual Richard Ridley. He lived among people who had no idea he wasn’t fully human.”

  “Lived with people?” Davidson asked with wide eyes. “For how long?”

  Knight shrugged. “Days, maybe weeks. We’re not sure yet.”

  “There goes your fifteen-minute continued-utterance theory,” King said.

  With a nodding head, Davidson said, “I should say so.” He turned to King. “But this was a clay golem in the form of a man. What applies to the crude stone giants may not apply to something this … sophisticated.”

  Davidson untwisted the cover from the sample and smelled the clay. His face was pale, but excited.

  “What is it?” King asked.

  Davidson held the sample aloft like it was some kind of ancient treasure. “We shouldn’t call this man Richard.” He looked King in the eyes. “We should call him Adam.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  Location Unknown

  FIONA WOKE IN a new cell, similar in size and shape to the last, but the stone was now brown and flat. A small slit on one side was the only feature. It allowed air and a small amount of light into the space. But where she was didn’t matter. She still needed to free herself from her bonds and set to work upon waking up.

  Fiona spit a bloody clump of rope fibers onto the floor next to her. She had been working on the rope for what felt like several hours, chewing feverishly and taking breaks. Her gums had become raw and bloody, but the injury was minor and fairly painless in comparison to the pain she felt in her body. Bound tight and struggling for so long, her muscles had begun to cramp. Waves of dizziness struck. Her headache persisted and accompanied a dire thirst. She tried to ignore her discomfort and focused on her bindings, which were now held together by only a few strands of twine.

  Fiona’s arms shook as she pulled them apart. The fibers grew taut and tore slowly as one strand after another snapped. When the chewed rope reached its breaking point, it broke in two. Her arms flew out to her sides and then fell limp.

  She was exhausted from her efforts, but her hands were free. Fighting against the tiredness gripping her body, she reached down to her feet and began untying the rope binding her ankles. What normally would have been a quick job took ten minutes
as the severe tingle of full blood flow returning to her fingers made every movement agonizing.

  With her feet free, Fiona stood slowly, using the wall for support. As she did, a wave of nausea struck and threatened to return her to the floor. She placed her face against the cold stone wall. She took a moment to breathe and let her body figure itself out. Once she felt a measure of balance return, she slowly bent down and touched her fingers to her toes. The stretch felt good. She stood tall again and breathed deeply. She felt better, but still quite dizzy and the headache and thirst had yet to diminish.

  Moving as quietly as she could, she walked to the cell’s only light source, the long slit in the stone wall. She peered through the slit, expecting to see a guard. But there was no one there.

  Why would they guard a cell with no doors? Fiona thought.

  The space directly outside the cell was just another stone wall. She moved to the left, angling her view so she could see down the hallway. It opened up ten feet beyond. The light was brightest there.

  And there were shadows.

  Moving.

  And a voice. She listened, but couldn’t understand the quiet words being spoken like a chant. A moment later she heard something she did understand.

  “Damnit!” The shout was masculine, deep, and held a supernatural menace—as though the word hadn’t just been spoken by a single man, but by two, out of sync by a fraction of a second.

  The chanting started up again. The language was again unknown to her, but bits and pieces struck a chord. Portions of words sounded familiar. Tones. Inflections. Not enough to figure out what was being said, but some part of what the man said was familiar to her. She realized she was hearing fragments of Siletz, a dead language to all but her.

  The chant ended in frustration once again with the pound of a fist. She jumped at the sharp noise, but remained quiet. She was intent on hearing anything and everything going on outside her cell.

  What she heard next, shook her to the core. “Please, sir,” a man said in a weak, heavily accented voice. “No more. I know nothing. I do not know what you are asking.”

  “I’m not asking anything,” the deep voice said. This was followed by an angry shout and the smack of flesh on flesh.

  Without seeing what was happening, Fiona could imagine what was going on. There was a man, bound, maybe sitting in a chair. He thought he was being interrogated, but the other man, the one with the deep voice, wasn’t asking questions. Then what was he doing?

  She heard one of them spit. She wasn’t sure which one until the captive said, “If I knew what you wanted I would tell you nothing! American pig!” And then he spat again.

  There were two shouts. One of anger. One of fear. The smack of wood striking stone came next. The chair had hit the floor. Hard breathing. Wet clicks. A shifting scuff of feet on the floor.

  Her eyes widened as her imagination created the most likely image. The captive had been knocked over and was being strangled. The killer stood, cleared his throat, and then spoke the strange language again, this time with practiced ease. “Versatu elid vas re’eish clom, emet.”

  She repeated the words in her head, not knowing the meaning, but determined to remember them if they turned out to be important. King had always stressed the importance of collecting intelligence before taking action. And she had nothing better to do in her featureless cell.

  A new shadow shifted in the room, this one mobile. Each step the figure took was marked by a loud grinding of stone.

  “Get me some water,” the deep voice said.

  The rough footsteps faded into the distance, then returned a moment later. She heard the man sip some water. Her mouth salivated. She wondered if she should ask for some, but decided against it. If the man knew she was awake and free of her bonds she would never learn anything.

  “Tisioh fesh met,” the man said.

  The second shadow stopped shifting.

  As she realized she had just heard the creation and undoing of one of the stone monsters she had seen at Fort Bragg and her previous prison, fear consumed her, chasing the words from her memory. The fear was then replaced by chills. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she felt more ill.

  Oh no, she thought as the reality of her situation finally sank in.

  She lifted up her shirt, looking for her insulin pump. It was gone. Nausea surged with her emotions, threatening to send her to the floor. She breathed deeply, willing it to pass, and cleared her mind.

  It must have fallen off when they took me, she thought.

  And now she understood why she felt so awful. The dizziness. The headache. The dehydration.

  Hyperglycemia.

  That normally meant she’d have a week or two before things got bad, before she slipped into a coma, or worse, died. But those numbers were for people with a regular diet and food. Drinking a lot of water would help keep her system clean, but she had none. Some people lived five to six days without water, but most died in three. Already dehydrated and feeling the first effects of hyperglycemia, she doubted she’d last another day.

  She tried once again to focus on the man’s words. To her frustration, she no longer remembered precisely what he’d said. Nausea coursed through her again. She fought against the urge to vomit. The effort caused her body to shake.

  She moved back to her post at the slit in the wall, praying the man would say something important, hoping her father would arrive in time to put her intelligence gathering to good use. As a new voice rolled down the tunnel, rescue seemed less likely.

  “We have only one more test subject,” the new, gargled voice said. “Should we send for more?”

  “Not yet,” the deep voice replied. “We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention. Not until we’re ready.” There was a shifting of feet and then, “If the next one doesn’t survive we’ll use the girl.”

  Fiona prayed they weren’t talking about her, but knew in her core she would soon be sitting in the dead man’s chair. What the men said next, solidified her fear.

  “How will we know if she’s truly changed?”

  The man fell silent for a moment and then let out a quick laugh. “This … this is perfection. What better way to punctuate King’s failure than to have his little girl put a knife through his heart. That’s our final test. She’s going to kill King.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Siberia, Russia

  THE FUR-COVERED CORNER seat held Rook’s weight without any trouble. And the fire burning in the nearby fireplace warmed the outside of his body as much as the vodka warmed him from within. But the creature comforts and alcohol did little to stifle the pain in his gut.

  Galya was a ruthless surgeon. She had dug and cut into him without mercy, plucking the shotgun pellets from his flesh one at a time. After a grueling hour without anesthetic, she had finished and sewed him up. In the day since, he had tried to move as little as possible, lying in bed or sitting still while sipping vodka and watching Galya hustle around the cabin.

  Despite her age, which she would not disclose, she was fit and energetic. She moved with efficiency and assuredness, tidying up the cabin and putting on a stew of potatoes, carrots, and meat from the reindeer she had shot and butchered.

  She entered the cabin with fresh firewood, blowing on her hands to warm them. “Going to be another cold night.”

  Feeling a little tipsy from all the vodka, Rook flashed her a lopsided grin and, still speaking Russian, said, “I bet I can find a way to keep you warm.”

  She paused and looked at him. Her face serious and crossed with wrinkles from years of hard work. A smile spread on her face, revealing a mouth with several teeth missing. She laughed hard and sat down by the fire. “I’m more woman than you could handle, boy.”

  Rook chuckled. “A real Russian bear, eh?”

  Galya pulled a stool, which was nothing more than a chunk of a tree, over to the fireplace and sat down. She stretched her hands out, warming them. She grew solemn. “There was a time, when this cabin wasn’t o
ccupied by myself alone, that that might have been true. But this bear is beyond her wild years. Now I’m just trying to live.” She looked at Rook, forcing a grin. “Not that you can really call this living. It’s closer to surviving.”

  “You don’t like it here?”

  “This is my home. It has been for twenty years.” She returned her gaze to the fire. “But it has been tainted since Kolya’s death two years ago. In the time since, I have kept up my duties and taken on his, simply waiting for death to rejoin us. Unfortunately for me, my mother and grandmother each lived to nearly one hundred.”

  “That gives you what, another fifty years left to live?” Rook said.

  She gave him a wry smile. “Still trying to get me in bed?”

  Rook laughed and then winced. Even a subtle flexing of his stomach sent waves of pain through his body.

  Seeing his pain, Galya stood. “We best get you back into bed.” She offered her hand to Rook and helped him stand.

  Towering more than a foot over the old woman, Rook looked down at her with a wide grin. “I knew you couldn’t resist getting me in your bed.”

  She swatted his chest. “Do you ever stop?”

  “Not with people I like,” Rook said, though he knew the truth was far more complicated. The good company, humor, and alcohol were dulling more than just a physical pain. The memories of his teammates’ deaths were still fresh in his mind and he hoped to forget them, if only for a night.

  With one arm around Rook’s back she helped him toward the bedroom. But before they reached the door, she paused. Rook noticed her attention turn swiftly toward the front windows. “Someone’s here,” she said.

  The rumble of an engine grew louder and slowed with a squeak of brakes.