Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  “It’ll take months to excavate their bodies.”

  “But the miktereths—”

  “Yeah. Strange that they were found separated. Someone from centuries past. Templar—”

  “Templar?”

  “The chest had their cross.”

  Maangi applied a butterfly bandage over her brow. “Done.”

  Close again, Tox angled in. “How are you?”

  “Bruised.” Talking about her feelings was as natural as turning herself inside out. “Ticked.”

  His cheek twitched in a near-smile and brought those soulful eyes back to hers. “Why are you ticked?”

  Right. Always business. He might have changed, but Tzivia wasn’t convinced it was for the better. “They took the artifacts, the miktereths.”

  “And there’s a plague.” He pulled up a chair and spun it around. Straddled it, arms folded over the back. “We’ve got forty minutes. Why don’t you fill us in?”

  She snorted. “Don’t you already know? I mean, you wouldn’t be here if—”

  “Tzi,” Ram said. “We need to know.”

  She nodded. “Yes, you do.” So she relayed the full of what had happened, starting with Basil’s death, then the next worker who stumbled out with a nosebleed. The stolen miktereths. The men who murdered everyone in the camp. “We sent scrapings of the censers to Johns Hopkins, and Dr. Cathey took one to Israel for study. It’ll probably be a few weeks still, but I’m at least eighty percent certain they’re Bronze Age.”

  Ram nodded, pleased.

  “You said you’re immune,” Tox noted. “Again.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You have this amazing way of making me feel guilty about that.”

  “It’s . . . notable.”

  “No, what’s notable is that my friend and partner is dead.” Tzivia’s heart hammered. “That the WHO doctor sent to stop the disease turned out to be a traitor. That some freak assassin just walked in here and murdered fifteen infected!”

  “We lost a man, too. We get it. But we need facts to stop that assassin.”

  She stilled. “He’s why you came?” So it wasn’t because of her, though she’d sent as many hints to her brother as she could that help would be appreciated.

  “Been tracking him. Killed an ambassador and a general.”

  “Yeah, well, if you don’t find him and get the censers back, Dr. Cathey is convinced the plague will ravage our world.”

  16

  — Day 8 —

  Jebel al-Lawz

  Being locked away in an air-conditioned metal coffin that doubled as a quarantine chamber was no different than the time Tox spent in a ten-by-twenty in the federal pen. He sat against the wall, remembering how he’d gotten himself into this mess by busting Galen’s lip. Small joy now as he felt the embers of frustration and agitation weakening his restraint. Chiji hovered nearby, his very presence soothing. Tox was glad his friend had come. He could’ve stayed in Nigeria, where it was safe—safe from the U.S. government, anyway.

  “How much longer, man?” Cell knocked his knees against the walls, sending vibrations through the whole tin can.

  “I’m about to put you out of your misery,” Maangi warned, “if you don’t quit rattling the cage.”

  Cell punched to his feet. “Yeah?”

  “Sit down,” Tox said in an even tone.

  “I’m going out of my mind in here,” Cell growled.

  “We all are. That’s the point. They’re testing us,” Thor said. “Lock us up, monitor our reactions.”

  “Why’d they put us in here, but not that hot chick?”

  Ram lifted his head, which had been cradled in his hands, and slid Cell a glare.

  “Might want to sit down before he ends you,” Maangi said. “And I’ll help.”

  The door groaned open. Light stabbed the dimness, making them wince. A man stepped up into the coffin, flanked by three others in tac gear. Behind them, at least a dozen more.

  Tox stood, ready for a fight, but paid attention to the instinct that said one wouldn’t happen. He felt the team behind him as he moved to the middle of the tank.

  In his mid-forties, the man had salt-and-pepper hair trimmed short and clean. He wore a tactical shirt and pants, a weapon holstered at his thigh. “Thank you for your patience. The containment unit”—his gaze swept the container—“has reported no contaminants. You’re clear to leave.”

  “Leave?” Tox glanced around for Tzivia. “Where’s—”

  “She’s helping the team sent in to clean things up, locate what they can, and work on other things.”

  “What things?” Ram came forward, his arms out to the side, ready for a confrontation.

  “Mr. Khalon, your sister will be fine. I assure you.”

  That the man knew Ram and his connection to Tzivia unnerved them. Tox wasn’t going to let this slide. “Who are you?”

  “Arthur Connors.” Again, he glanced around the room, settled a little longer on Ram than Tox would’ve preferred, but it wouldn’t be the first time an in-field agent had contact with a Special Forces operator.

  “Another spook,” Maangi said.

  Connors didn’t acknowledge or deny the accusation. He angled his head to the side and held out a hand. One of the soldiers behind him placed a sat phone in his palm, which he extended to Tox. “You and your team are headed to New Delhi.”

  Cell and his colorful language argued.

  Connors smiled. “Thought you might like that.” He nodded to the device. “Call your people. Verify it. They’re the ones sending you.” Connors had one of those gazes that spoke more than he did. “You’re wheels-up in fifteen.”

  “You so anxious to get rid of us?”

  Hopping out of the box, Connors shook his head. Then looked back. “Fewer bodies for me to count after the next strike.”

  “Not real fond of India,” Maangi muttered.

  “Better than some backwater village in Syria,” Ram countered, grabbing his ruck. He shot a look to Tox. “You making that call?”

  Tox turned from the expectant eyes of his team and faced the steel walls as he called. Something didn’t seem right. Seemed too convenient, all these assets in place. They just happened to be here? Connors was close enough to come in and clean up? Or maybe this was just more of the short stick Galen had stuck them with.

  “Code in,” came the stiff, monotone voice on the other end of the line.

  “Charlie-Kilo-Romeo-Romeo-November-Six-Two-Nine,” Tox said firmly.

  “Please hold.”

  A moment later, “Tox, that you? This is Almstedt.”

  Tox met Chiji’s calm gaze. “You sending us somewhere?”

  “Yes. We—”

  “New Delhi,” barked Rodriguez, intruding and taking control of the conversation. “It’s quite the mess down there in Jebel al-Lawz, Russell.”

  Accusation laced his words that Tox had created the mess. That, true to his name, people died wherever he went. “Not my mess, sir. It was already here when we put boots on the ground.”

  “Well, we have to stop this thing.”

  “Tox, the man you’re going after,” Almstedt said, “Bhavin Narang—you’ll have this information soon—is infected, so we must locate and contain him—yesterday!”

  “Understood,” Tox said, trying to tamp down his frustration at being forced off mission. This was just like when they sent him to Kafr al-Ayn, where a guy wielding a mace believed himself all-powerful as he spread a deadly toxin. But in this case, the guy was just trying to make a fast buck . . . or thousand. “Why are we breaking mission to go after a diseased subject who’ll likely be dead in a few days?” He checked the buzz of medical teams outside the containment unit. “Isn’t that what’s been happening? Dead guys aren’t hard to find or stop.”

  “But diseases like the septicemic plague and the Black Death are,” Almstedt said. “If he’s out there, he’s infecting people. I don’t need to explain how bad that could be, do I?”

  Tox ground his molars, n
oting the groans from the men around him.

  “Listen,” Rodriguez said, “it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that Tanin goes after this thief.”

  With a cockeyed nod, Tox considered the general’s words, the truth behind them. Tanin came here to steal the artifacts. If he knew Narang had stolen one, Tanin was probably crazy enough to risk a plague to get it back. It wasn’t just about the artifact now. Men like Tanin took it personally. It was about conquest.

  Tox felt the guys watching. Felt their probing gazes. Their concern. He turned and hopped out of the container. Wandered around the side. “What about the disease?”

  “It’s one ugly mess.”

  “Yes, sir, but my team”—Tox glanced back to be sure he was alone—“you’re asking me to willingly and knowingly put them in the path of this deadly virus.”

  “It’s the same as you leading your men into a line of fire with bullets, IEDs, and bombs, Russell. Containment is out of our hands. This is no different than combat.”

  It was different. How, he didn’t know. But it was. “They didn’t sign up for this.”

  “No, you signed them up. Remember? What was it you said? ‘My team, my men.’”

  The det cord in him sparked. Backed into a corner, Tox fisted his hand. “Sir—”

  “Find your manhood and get on that plane.”

  The line went dead.

  Tox threw a punch into the metal wall. Pain spiked through his knuckles. He punched it again, growling as he did. Both hands on the steel, he drew in a breath. Let it out. Drew in another.

  “‘We battle not against flesh and blood—’”

  “Not now, Chiji.”

  “Especially now, Ndidi.” Voice as smooth as satin, as thick as chocolate, Chiji insisted. “Especially at this hour when the demons are many.”

  “I’m leading them to their deaths.”

  “You are not God,” Chiji whispered, his words fierce. “Do not think yourself so great that their lives rest in your hands.”

  “They’re my men.” Staring up at his friend, Tox hoped to drive home his point. “I chose them. Insisted on them—those men. Each one.” Major General Rodriguez had been right about that. Tox had nailed each one to the cross of this mission. “So, yes—yes, they are in my hands. If they die—their blood is on my head.”

  “If God says they die—you can no more stop it than start it.”

  “Don’t. Don’t sanitize this.” Tox huffed, his heart pumping hard. “If they die, it’s on me. I won’t let you wash that guilt away with some platitude or Bible verse.”

  He’d accept penance. Live with it. It was his. Letting it wash away was to dishonor the memory of those who trusted him. The men at Kafr al-Ayn. Brooke . . .

  “Then it is you who strangles mercy.” Chiji bent down, his dark brow mottled with sweat and dirt. “God, He brings you here.”

  “No, I—”

  “You are his warrior. He put your foot on this path. He guides you.” Chiji shifted the angle of his head.

  He wanted to believe that. Believe God actually had purpose for him.

  “Tox?”

  He pivoted and swallowed his frustration as Ram joined him. Counting rocks beneath his feet gave him a few seconds to regroup.

  Ram waited, quiet. Enough worked through his clear eyes to know he’d heard the conversation. “What’d SAARC say?”

  “New Delhi.” Tox drew in a quick breath and spit it out before he could alter course. “Track down the guy who stole the artifact from Tzivia.”

  “And Tanin?”

  “Unknown. Possibly going after the thief, too.”

  Ram adjusted the beanie on his mop of curly hair, then nodded. “Tzivia was relieved Dr. Cathey had left the site before Tanin showed up. He’s in Israel verifying a parchment and that censer. She’ll stay here until he returns.”

  Tox smiled. “She’s not waiting on an old man.”

  His friend laughed. “No, she’ll find any reason to play in the dirt again.”

  It was one thing Tox admired about her. “So, the parchment—significant?”

  “Perhaps.” Ram stared out at the mountain in the distance, deep thought sparking in his eyes. “But the censers—possibly the biblical find of the century, likely proving where Moses and the Israelites encamped.” He stared at the scorched mountain. “Imagine Moses there, receiving the Ten Commandments.”

  The words forced Tox to take it in. To consider the possibility that he stood on ground Moses and the Israelites had walked. Heady thought.

  “If true, this will give her some badly needed credibility after Kafr.”

  A Black Hawk showed up a half hour later, and they raced out of Saudi and into Beirut, completely bypassing the FBI agents, who were given orders to meet up in New Delhi. In Beirut, Tox and the guys boarded a jet for India. He checked his phone every five minutes for the information Almstedt had promised.

  In a notebook, he sketched out the information they knew so far:

  → archaeological site contaminated

  → plague-like disease killing people: protrusions, bleeding tissue, Black Death

  → artifacts stolen

  → Tanin—Why?

  What was going on? Were the artifacts tied to the disease? It seemed logical—and yet, entirely illogical. This wasn’t some op with a supernatural twist. He was fighting for real lives, the lives of his men.

  “SAARC send that info?” Ram’s question carried just loud enough to be heard.

  Tox tugged out his phone and double-checked. “Not yet.”

  Ram indicated the notebook. “What’re you thinking?”

  “That it”—Tox shook his head—“doesn’t make sense.” He scanned the jet. “SAARC knew about the plague.”

  Ram’s intuitive gaze probed Tox’s face.

  “When we found that site, they immediately asked about the isolation tent, about its damage. Before we could even figure out what was going on.”

  “So they knew there was a deadly plague when they sent us down there.” Ram scratched his thickening stubble. Looked at the notebook. “Why would they?”

  “Exposure . . . ?”

  “Think it’s hit more than just that village and New Delhi?”

  “If it did, we’re in a boatload of trouble.” The phone buzzed in Tox’s hand. He checked the screen and saw an email with an attached file. “Here we go.”

  “Group up,” Ram said, circling his finger in the air.

  The others gathered as Tox opened the file. It came through quick. Too quick. He scrolled down. “Only two pages.”

  “Keep intel close to the vest.”

  Tox went back to the first page. “Thief is Bhavin Narang, age twenty-three. Not married.” He kept reading, then summarized. “They suspect Tanin is going after him, but assets there report no sight of him.” He processed the next paragraph of information. “Bhavin has one brother, Chatresh Narang. Thirty, unmarried . . . and he’s missing, too.”

  “Get me a computer,” Cell said, annoyance bleeding into his words, “and I’ll find him.”

  “What,” Maangi said, “you think SAARC and DoD haven’t tried?”

  “Tried. That’s the key. They tried and what do we have? Bupkus.” Cell stabbed a finger against the top of the seat. “Everyone hiding comes out at some point. For small things—food, mail.” He scrunched his shoulders. “This brother comes out? I’ll bop him on the head.”

  “No bopping,” Tox said. “If we find him, he can lead us to his brother.” A second of weightlessness tugged at him. He eyed the name one more time, as well as the address of the safe house, then passed the phone around. “Memorize it. I want to find this guy and get back to the original chase.”

  “Tanin,” Ram said, scanning the page as the plane began its descent.

  By 2200, they’d landed and worked their way through the tangled streets to a swanky hotel that towered over the bustling capital city and served as a safe house. The team showered up, ate, and then grabbed rack time.

&nb
sp; On first watch, Tox stood at the window, staring down at the tangle of cars and bodies swarming the late night. Thousands could become a thousand corpses in a matter of days if this thing broke out . . . if they missed this guy . . .

  He should do this on his own. Protect the team. The men. Nobody else needed to get hurt because of him. There had to be a way to get around this.

  Never should’ve asked for the team.

  But he had. So he had to gut it up. He’d wanted to operate seamlessly and without hesitation. For Tox, that level of trust only came with the men in this safe house. But chasing a man infected with a deadly plague . . . Roughing both hands along the sides of his head, he pivoted and grabbed his phone, glad Ram’s shift had started.

  “Going down to the vending machine.” He was halfway out the door before his sentence finished. He wasn’t hungry. Didn’t care about food. He had to get out. Get walking.

  What you run from is responsibility.

  Tox groaned. His own conscience now sounded distinctly like Chiji. Maybe he should go for a run.

  And where would you run to?

  Was there no peace to be had in this world? He rounded the corner.

  A man stood there. His face went white—which, for an Indian, was saying a lot.

  Tox stopped, his anxiety forgotten. His anger shed. A claxon went off in his head. Trouble. This guy was trouble.

  The man straightened. Reached for something.

  Tox threw himself at him. Slammed his forearm into the guy’s throat, pinning him against the wall and catching his closest arm. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “P-please,” the man struggled, his dark brows etched into a knot. “I—you are the soldiers?”

  Tox applied more pressure. “Don’t move.”

  “No, no,” he muttered. “I came—my brother. He was my brother.” Tears spilled over his brown cheeks. “Please—please help me.”

  Things started coming together. His words making sense. This was Bhavin Narang’s brother. Pupils tiny. Eyes red, puffy. Crying. He looked tormented.

  “Chatresh,” Tox said.

  The man’s eyes widened. He almost smiled. “Yes. I am Chatresh.”

  Could he trust this guy? No, but he could take him. “I’m going to release you,” Tox said, wishing Agent Cortes was here to tell him if he was reading this guy right. “But don’t test me.”