Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  The match began, the roar of the crowd deafening.

  Tox went on alert. A great time to strike—when excitement could conceal movement and explosions. Where that excitement became confusion. He hiked back up to the VIP lounge, a slab of cement adorned with linen-clad tables, umbrellas, and too-rich-for-their-own-good spectators. And royals.

  Prince Einar was a lanky kid who hadn’t quite grown into manhood. Probably eighteen, maybe nineteen. Twenty if he’d been born early. But the kid was cocky. His father, the king, sat with another suit, the two immersed in heavy conversation, laughter, and quite a few drinks, even though the match had just started.

  Tox walked the perimeter, allowing himself enough of an angle to see down the dark cement passage behind the lounge. At the far end beyond a lip-locked pair, he connected gazes with Cell, who turned. Slammed into a man, who forcefully knocked Cell to the side.

  “Hey!”

  Like lightning, an arrow shot through the darkness. Glowing. Intent. Vicious. It nailed Cell in the chest.

  “Man down, man down!” Tox hissed into his mic, diving around the cluster of people. A scream shot out. He heard a thrum of panic behind him but focused on his man.

  Cell lay perfectly still, his hand reaching for but not touching the phosphorus arrow in the hollow of his shoulder. “Son of a blister,” he managed, his gaze shifting to meet Tox’s. “Didn’t see this coming.”

  “Easy,” Tox said, then radioed in details about the hit.

  Cell frowned. “I’m not feeling anything.”

  “Did it hit your spine?”

  “No, I mean”—Cell lifted his head, looked at the spot where the arrowhead penetrated his armor and upper chest—“I’m not boiling.”

  Tox eyed the shaft and saw the glass cutout that showed a grayish liquid inside. Whatever caused the arrow to release the phosphorus had failed. “Get hazmat up here.”

  “Pull it,” Cell muttered. “Get this thing out of me.”

  “No. It could detonate.”

  “Hazmat en route,” Ram said over the comms. “How’s Cell?”

  “Dying,” Cell muttered. “I think you should hold a vigil.”

  “You don’t get a vote on your ceremony,” Maangi countered.

  “I should.”

  Tox swiveled his legs around and peered down the dark tunnel-like area. “Everyone report,” he said, probing the crowds, checking ears.

  “Alonso is oblivious,” Ram said.

  “Belgium is boring,” Wallace reported.

  “Norway hasn’t moved,” Chiji said. “I’ll cover them for you.”

  “Copy.” Tox looked up as a hazmat team rounded the bend and hustled toward them. They loaded Cell onto a stretcher and draped a cloth around the arrow. An EMT tapped information into a handheld tablet.

  “Hey.” Cell pointed to the device. “Can I see that?”

  “No, this—”

  “Seriously.” Cell snatched it, went to work. “I’ll report in, Sarge.”

  Tox shook his head. “You should be unconscious.”

  “I will be eventually,” he said. “Until then . . .”

  Shaking his head, Tox returned to the VIP lounge. Verified his objectives were still alive. Sent Chiji back to Haven’s side. Einar stood at the glass rail, sipping a bottle of water and watching the match. His father remained engrossed with the other man.

  “SAARC, you live?” Tox asked into the comms.

  “We are.”

  “Did you see who shot that arrow?”

  “Negative. But trajectory puts it in Blue Two.”

  “Wallace, that’s you. Stay alert.”

  “Roger,” Wallace confirmed.

  Loud voices drew Tox’s gaze back to the VIP lounge, where the conversation with the king was growing animated.

  “Tox . . .” Ram warned.

  “I see it.” He wasn’t leaving this station again. “Command, who is Jorgen’s guest?” Was that man trouble? The real target? He had monopolized the king’s time.

  “Jorgen’s brother-in-law, Carlos” came the reply.

  “The prince’s uncle?”

  “The king’s sister married Carlos, a grand duke. Has a lot of sway with Jorgen, according to intel.”

  Prince Einar glowered at his father and uncle. Shaking his head, he focused on the match. So the prince wasn’t a fan of politics.

  “Copy that.” Tox settled into his corner, waiting, monitoring, never letting his guard down.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Maangi spoke lazily through the comms, “in four years, can we have another crisis at the next World Cup? Sweet view. No cost.”

  Tox knew the joke was a coping mechanism to help cut the tension, especially after Cell went down, but he needed them to focus. “Eyes out.”

  “Sarge. Cell here.”

  Tox snorted. Cell should be feeling real good thanks to morphine by now but he was reporting in. “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve . . .”

  The comms went silent. Tox leaned his head to the side, away from the crowds. “Cell?”

  “Sarge, I’ve got something. I pulled up—dude, that hurts! Go easy—”

  “Cell?”

  “Yeah, sorry—they got needles the size of this arrow digging into me. Anyway, pulled up the security feed from the stadium.”

  He had Tox’s full attention. “Go on.”

  “The man who knocked me aside, right before the arrow?”

  Tox wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this.

  “It was Tzaddik!”

  45

  — Day 15 —

  Jerusalem

  Armed with the three censers, Joseph and Tzivia made their way back to the room beneath the museum.

  “I still don’t understand why we’re coming back here,” Tzivia said.

  “It is curious, but it’s also entirely possible it’s like a puzzle and that location is important.”

  “It’s a converted tunnel! I do digs in places like this!”

  “Exactly—it might have historical significance.”

  “To what? The plague?”

  Joseph lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps. Or the censers. Or . . .” His words fell away as he caught sight of shadows ahead in the passage leading to the secure entrance.

  Four men peeled out of the darkness. They walked with authority and . . . menace, jamming Joseph’s heart in a rapid fire.

  Tzivia slid a hand toward him, urging him to let her take the lead. With her training, he trusted her. Though, as a man, he felt responsible for her. But he had a box in his arms and panic in his chest, so she was clearly the better person to take point.

  A fifth man appeared. His tall, lanky form belied the strength resonating through his dark eyes. “The box,” he demanded.

  “Wait,” Tzivia snapped. “Those are ours.”

  “Here.” Joseph handed the box to the leader.

  “This way,” he said, stepping aside and motioning toward the doors.

  Tzivia hissed in Joseph’s ear, “They won’t give them back.”

  “I know.” The censers were lost to them. But perhaps they should be relegated to history once more.

  They entered the room, surprised to find nearly a dozen people. Joseph hesitated and felt Tzivia turn to him. He saw Akiva and started toward him.

  “The censers?” Akiva looked over his shoulder to the shadow who’d taken them. “Good. Put them there.”

  A large wood box sat in the middle of the room along with two pedestals. One held a small bowl, the other a basin made of some sturdy material. It was wide and shallow. Inside it, coals burned brightly.

  Joseph stilled with realization.

  “You see now?” Akiva smiled. He motioned to a tall priest. “This is Yadon.”

  The man wore a long white robe with a blue mantle over it. A tall, white turban supported a gold band. A highly decorated breastplate revealed him as the high priest.

  “Aaron’s sons,” Joseph muttered.

  Yadon inclined his head.

  A
kiva drew Joseph and Tzivia to the side. “We have one other leaf with Thefarie’s mark. Together, we discerned that to check this plague, the censers must be anointed with the shemen hamishcha.”

  Joseph looked to Yadon. “And only a descendent of Aaron can go before the Lord.” Among the haredim that was true. Among Christians like Joseph, that had changed with Yeshua.

  But for this plague to be checked, Joseph submitted his thoughts to the pomp and ceremony.

  ****

  — Barcelona —

  “Eyes out!” Tox barked, sensing the gaze of Tanin through a scope, though he stood behind a cement wall. “Find who shot that arrow at Cell.” Heat rushed through him, the fires of rage. Was Tzaddik trying to pick off the team so he could accomplish his endgame?

  “Tzaddik tried to kill you?” Thor asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Cell said, his words thoughtful, deliberate. “I think he saved me.”

  Rubbing his temple, Tox tried to sort it. “Come again.”

  “If he hadn’t pushed me,” Cell said, “I think the trajectory of that arrow would’ve put it right through my heart.”

  How could Tzaddik know the arrow was coming? How could he save Cell? And why? “I want him found,” Tox growled.

  “Ndidi, your prince is leaving. He just got a call.”

  “On it,” Tox mumbled as Prince Einar headed out of the VIP lounge with the phone to his ear. “Can we trace that call he’s on?”

  “Working on it,” Vander said.

  Tox paced the prince until he entered the tunnel. “Headed east.”

  “I have him,” Chiji said.

  Relief speared Tox as Chiji stepped from one of the wells and fell into step behind the prince. Tox backed up as they vanished in a splash of light.

  “Can’t trace it,” SAARC replied. “Signal’s bouncing all over the grid.”

  Of course it was. “Stay on him, Chiji. Keep me posted.”

  “Roger.”

  Tox started back toward the VIP lounge. His brain snagged on something, then slowly caught up with what triggered it. A door closed just before something swung out of view. He mentally retraced.

  Crossbow!

  “I have something.” He crossed the crowded concourse to a door marked MAINTENANCE. “NPC, this is Wraith Actual. Any maintenance calls on level four?”

  “Checking” came a static-laced reply. A few seconds later, “Negative. Management says the turbine for the main airflow system is all that’s in there.”

  “Perfect way to spread a virus,” Ram said, echoing Tox’s thoughts.

  Tox was moving. “Any exits in there?”

  “Only that door,” NPC reported back.

  “Guys,” Cell said through the comms, his voice strained, “I’m down here with the CDC-types. They said this virus—if they put it in gas form to release it through the vents, it could accelerate its effect.”

  Tox approached the door. “Like how fast?”

  “People could die before leaving the stadium.” Cell grunted. “So, um, yeah—make sure we stop them.”

  “Copy.” Tox lifted his weapon from the holster beneath his shirt. “Going in.”

  46

  — Day 15 —

  Barcelona

  Fingers on the door handle, he slowly twisted, knowing every second spent on safety could make him too late. The door released. Weapon down, he gently guided the door open. As he took in the room, he edged in farther, carefully letting it close. Crouched to search beneath massive fans and grates.

  A clank sounded beyond the cement that hemmed him in. A corridor ran fifteen feet to his left then banked right. At the end, Tox scanned the ceiling, corners. Place couldn’t be bigger than thirty by twenty. Close-quarters combat. He squatted. Peered past one turbine. A second.

  There. Blue jeans. Kneeling at a thick, black metal column. Bent over. One hand reaching into a bag of . . . vials?

  “Eyes on tango,” Tox subvocalized, knowing the roar of the engines and fans would mute his voice to his enemy. “Confirmation on vials.”

  He hurried along the wall, eyes out, weapon ready. Pivoted right. Quickly, he closed the gap to the third turbine well. He peered around. Sighted the man kneeling before an open vent.

  Tox jerked back, pulse amped. It wasn’t just an AFO agent. The ear—Tanin. He couldn’t let the guy leave alive this time. He’d stare down the face of evil and end it.

  Slowing his breathing, Tox stepped out. Felt more than saw the blow coming. He ducked. Whipped his weapon to the right.

  A well-placed strike to Tox’s arms knocked the weapon free. A boot flew at his face.

  Tox blocked, shoving Tanin’s leg away, putting him off-balance. He slid in and drove a punch into his side. But even still, Tanin swung. Came at him as if Tox hadn’t connected with that punch. He threw his own. Then an uppercut. Hook.

  “Don’t break the vials,” Ram shouted through the comms.

  Break the vials? He didn’t want to break his neck fighting this guy. He stepped back, the fury in Tanin’s fighting skills pretty crazy. Tanin hadn’t killed him in London because it would’ve been too easy. Tanin was all about the challenge.

  Crack! Stars burst through Tox’s visual cortex, the blow registering too late. Pain wracked his brain. He stumbled back but never lost sight of Tanin. Or the flurry of punches. Tox caught his fist. Twisted it. Slammed a palm-heel strike into the man’s face.

  Now Tanin stumbled. Blood gushed from his nose. But he didn’t stop. Or pause. He came, swift as lightning. Nailed Tox in the solar plexus.

  Excruciating pain exploded. Blinding. Couldn’t breathe. Tox doubled, grasping for air. His pulse throbbed against his temples. He pitched himself forward, knocking Tanin backward.

  Crunch!

  The vials! Tox silently cursed himself. Felt victory slipping away. He caught Tanin. Used the man’s momentum against him and threw him to the side.

  The assassin came up swinging a large pipe. He clobbered Tox in the temple. Reverberations rang through Tox’s head. His knees buckled. Teeth rattled. The world swam. But surrendering to the pain meant death. He saw the pipe coming again and ducked.

  Clang! A pipe broke, spewing searing steam. Singed Tox’s cheek. “Augh.” He whirled away, feeling the fire in his face.

  Tanin attacked again.

  Tox caught the pipe. Yanked Tanin forward. Slammed his boot into the man’s knee. The crunch was louder than Tanin’s howl.

  Tox spotted a second pipe a few inches away and grabbed it. Stood, testing the steel weapons in his hands. He twirled the pipes, thinking of Chiji. Of Filipino stick fighting. But with steel.

  A bloody mess, Tanin sneered.

  Tox hopped forward and snapped the pipe at his head. Ducking, Tanin threw a punch. Tox deflected. Struck him in the side. Tanin grunted but didn’t stop. Tox fell into the kali rhythm. Right temple. Left side. Left temple. Right side. Faster. Faster.

  Tanin growled as he dragged a bigger pipe free. Swung it at Tox, wild. Uncontrolled. Angry. Unfocused.

  It gonged against Tox’s pipe. Rattled up his arm, shoulder, and ended at his teeth. The assassin swung again. He hit Tox in the shoulder, spinning him. A pipe slipped away. His legs twisted. He went to a knee, glass from the broken vials cutting into his knee cap. Couldn’t stop. He’d die. This was for keeps.

  Tox flung himself back toward the assassin and saw Tanin pushing up from the ground, something in hand.

  Jeering laughter rang through the room, getting lost in the drone of the A/C units. The assassin shifted to the side, then stood. “Knew you’d be worth the wait.” He slid forward, something in hand.

  Long, narrow shaft.

  Not good!

  Tox scrabbled away from the arrow, mind blazing with panic. If the tip pierced him, it’d inject the chemical—boil him inside out. Like all Tanin’s other victims. Tox wasn’t ready for death, not like that.

  The assassin raised the arrow and slashed at him. Taunting. Threatening. Wielding the arrow as a symbol of hi
s power.

  Tox lurched back, arching his spine away from the steel-tipped head. The wrong pressure on that thing, and he’d sizzle. He kept a pipe poised between them.

  Tanin’s arm swept in at a perfect arc, heading straight for Tox’s midsection. Tox jumped back again, wobbling on the glass. Had to stay out of reach. But he also had to get in. Disarm him. Just needed an opportunity.

  Again, Tanin lunged—this time the arrow’s tip was aimed for Tox’s face.

  Tox angled away. Arms up, blocking. Tanin grabbed the last pipe. Tox cared more about avoiding the deadly arrow. The blade of the winged head sliced through his black tactical shirt, cutting his arm. He hissed. Was that it? No, no phosphorus glow. No boiling.

  Face darkening, Tanin drew the arrow to his side. Bared his teeth. Rage set in his eyes. But the posture—the angle . . . Tox knew what was coming. He had to stop him. Might be his only chance. He didn’t need sticks. Kali concepts translated perfectly to hand-to-hand.

  The arrow thrust forward.

  Tox tented his hands and dove in. He swept his right arm up, clamped onto the back of Tanin’s neck. The other hand grabbed his forearm, preventing him from stabbing—though he tried—with the arrow.

  Tox widened his arms and stance, holding tight. Off-balance, Tanin still struggled. But it gave Tox the moment he needed to flip his grip and secure Tanin’s arrow-wielding arm beneath Tox’s armpit. He squeezed tight, making it impossible for Tanin to be offensive. At the same time, he hauled the assassin forward by the back of the neck. Drove his knee into Tanin’s abdomen. Again.

  Grunts whooshed from Tanin.

  Tox kept his momentum. Shoved Tanin’s neck down farther. Gripped his arm and neck tight. Spun him down and around, until Tanin plopped hard, seated with his back against Tox’s leg. Arrow-wielding arm straight up and almost out of socket. The lightning-fast move gave Tox the second he needed to snatch the arrow away.

  Swinging himself around in front of the man, Tox dropped on his gut, forcing Tanin flat, and straddled him. Determined to end him. He hoisted the arrow up, ready to drive it into Tanin’s heart.

  Fury lit the assassin’s bloodied face. When Tox brought the arrow down, Tanin shoved his hand up, deflecting. Hooked an arm crossway over Tox’s shoulder and chest, hugging Tox as he looped his other arm around his throat.