Threshold

by Robinson, Jeremy

  During the daylight hours Bishop and his team, dressed as tourists, split into three teams of two, casually seeking out a sixty-seven-year-old man named Miguel Franco and his forty-five-year-old son, Nahuel. The pair lived together in downtown Resistencia with the single son supporting his out-of-work father.

  Casual interviews with neighbors, local bars, shops, and churches revealed that the pair often spent nights camped out on the Negro River where the father would make up for his unemployment by catching a haul of fish, sometimes enough to sell at the local market.

  Bishop could feel several of those large fish swimming circles around his legs. He pushed through them, closing on the campfire that revealed the team’s two targets sitting on a small sandy beach, lines cast and fishing rod handles buried in the sand. A half-finished twelve-pack of beer sat between them, which complicated the fact that a shotgun, presumably for warding off crocs, lay in the younger man’s lap. He had no doubt that anything bigger than a fish emerging from the water would be greeted by an explosion of lead pellets.

  Making a mental note to wait for the men to move away from the firearm, Bishop paused by a log as the team gathered behind him. He turned to whisper the game plan when a snapping branch somewhere in the jungle cut through the cacophony of nighttime calls.

  His first thought was that a jaguar or croc might be stalking the group, but they were hidden from the shoreline by thick vegetation. It could just as easily be a wild boar … or a person.

  The team fell silent as one, all listening for another sound. For thirty seconds there was nothing but silence. Then it was broken by the elder Franco’s loud, drunken laugh. As Miguel’s amusement dulled to a chuckle Bishop again heard movement.

  This time he brought his handgun up and aimed it at the jungle. Timing an approach to coincide with surrounding noise was a hunting technique used by only one predator on the planet.

  Man.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Taipei, Taiwan

  KNIGHT LOOKED GOOD dressed in black slacks and a dark blue button-down silk shirt. As he approached Mackay Memorial Hospital, flanked by two of the five Delta operators assigned to him, he wore a large grin required by his cover. As a wealthy benefactor looking to donate money to the hospital and to the Presbyterian church that ran it, the plan was to tour the facility where he would meet an exceptional ninety-five-year-old man, Walis Palalin, who for the past twenty-five years had spent three days a week volunteering in the children’s ward. Apparently, the man had lost his son in this very hospital twenty-five years ago and had been paying tribute to him ever since.

  Upon meeting the man, Knight would offer a million-dollar donation—if Mr. Palalin would accompany him to a dinner. Right then and there. No delays. Just the two of them and Knight’s two security guards.

  Once in their vehicle, getting the man onto a ship and back to America would be a simple thing … if the man’s health didn’t become a factor. He had a clean bill of health and could very well live another ten years—perhaps longer—but the emotional jolt of being kidnapped could undo the man’s well-being fairly quickly, especially if he was on any medication, which is why the missing three members of Knight’s team were rummaging through Palalin’s apartment looking for any medications or supplements that the man needed.

  The industrial hospital wasn’t exactly inviting-looking. Surrounded by the neon glitz of Taipei, it had a depressing facade. But the smiles Knight got from the women he passed on the sidewalk as he approached the front entrance were enough to lift any male hospital visitor’s spirits. Of course, in Taiwan they could be working women, but it was still mid-afternoon, so he doubted it. Ten feet from the concrete staircase leading up to the double-door entrance, he saw a stunning woman. She turned, met his eyes and smiled.

  As he returned the woman’s smile, he noted that hers had frozen and become forced. The woman, dressed in a dark gray power suit, turned fully toward him. He noted her open jacket and the two items attached to her belt.

  A badge.

  And a gun.

  With one hand the woman drew her sidearm.

  With the other she spoke into a radio Knight hadn’t noticed before.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Asino, Siberia

  THE DISTINCT SMELL of a cow pasture rolled over the open hill and wafted past Rook. Despite being a distasteful odor to many people, it reminded Rook of his home in New Hampshire, where he grew up down the road from a cow farm. He couldn’t see the farm itself, but the smell and distant cattle calls placed the farm somewhere on the other side of the green grassy rise to his left. To the right was a forest of pine and birch trees that was home to bears, reindeer, and, judging from the continuous buzz of chain saws, a thriving forestry business. The odors, combined with the cool mid-morning air, felt invigorating.

  As Rook, dressed as a local in dirty work pants and a thick gray wool sweater, walked down the road toward town, his team followed along in the forest, wading through a sea of bright green ferns. Fortunately, the three targets lived on the outskirts of town, in a home that backed up to the forest. Rook would approach from the road, posing as a local in need of car assistance. When he was invited in to use the phone, he would drug the group and his team would abscond with them, each pair carrying one of the two women and one man—all that remained of the Chulym people. A truck hidden two miles away in the forest would transport the group to an airfield where a small plane, operated by a local CIA operative, waited to whisk them (with two landings to refuel) to neighboring Georgia, where a much faster transport would take them to the United States.

  It was one of the more complicated and slower extraction plans Rook had seen, but that was to be expected when kidnapping three people from a country that wasn’t exactly on hugging terms with the United States. Quiet and careful was preferred to loud and fast in this case.

  A sign ahead, written in Russian, read, “Thank you for visiting Asino. Population 28,000.” Rook quickened his pace, knowing the turn onto his targets’ street was only a mile ahead. He wanted to get this over with and the long trek home started.

  The trees on the side of the road shifted under a breeze. A fallen tree caught in the grip of a second squeaked loudly as entwined limbs rubbed against each other. The sudden foreign noise returned Rook’s attention to what he could hear and he noticed something had changed. The cows had fallen silent. Perhaps feeding? But the distant whine of chain saws had quieted as well.

  Kafer’s voice filled his ear. “Rook, RP-One here. Do you he—”

  Rook muted his earbud as the sound for which Kafer had broken radio silence for struck his ears. Still distant, the deep bass staccato was easily identifiable as not one but several approaching helicopters.

  Big ones.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  El Calvario, Colombia

  UNDER THE COVER of darkness, Queen and her team of operators watched the small mountainside town of El Calvario through night vision goggles. Few lights remained on and many of those bore the telltale flicker of television sets. The town was at rest. And when they woke in the morning, two of them would be missing. But despite the town’s quiet demeanor, it bore the scars of a violent past, most recently as the epicenter for a magnitude 5.9 earthquake in 2008. Six people had died. Hundreds more were injured. But the buildings in town took the brunt of the damage. Those that had collapsed remained so and many others, including the tall yellow church, had cracked walls or bent frames.

  The two men—the last speakers of Tinigua—had been citizens of El Calvario since they were born. The first, Edmundo Forero, was born sixty-nine years previous and was the oldest resident in town. The second man, Tavio Cortes, born sixty-four years ago, had been a neighbor of Edmundo’s, and as a result picked up the language that he and his mother spoke. The language that now only the two of them knew.

  The challenge for Queen and her team was that despite being close friends, Edmundo and Tavio now lived on opposite sides of town, which wasn’t just a matter of horizontal distance, but
also vertical. El Calvario’s main drag rose straight up the mountainside at an amazingly steep angle. The obvious choice was to split the team in two, taking both men at the same time. But Queen had seen more than a few bullet holes in buildings and knew the area had seen some violent unrest. Despite the gross exaggerations about Colombia being a haven for terrorists and drug runners, these elements did exist in the fringes of civilization, and the town had clearly seen some firefights in its past. What made this a challenge for the team was that people who experienced violent events tended to prepare for the next encounter.

  Queen’s team moved as one. Like a black-clad anaconda stalking its prey in the darkness, they moved in a fast single-file line, weaving through the tight alleys between the turquoise and white homes. They gathered beneath the tall stilts supporting their target’s back porch. While three men kept watch below the porch, two more followed Queen up the stairs.

  Queen, along with QP-One and -Two, huddled by the back door for a moment while she picked the lock. Once inside, she drew a tranquilizer gun and moved through the home, heading for the living room where the TV flickered. Just as she hoped, Edmundo lay asleep in a reclined chair, a beer in one hand, a cigarette burned to the nub in the other.

  “Bastard is lucky to still be alive,” QP-Two said.

  Queen took aim and shot him in the chest. The old man’s eyes launched open, wrinkling the flat, leathery brown skin of his forehead. He stood, saw their black masks and night vision goggles, and before he had time to fully register what he’d seen, fell face forward into Queen’s arms. She handed him to QP-One and -Two, who carried him outside and down the steps to where the others still waited.

  As Queen walked down the steps, she activated her throat microphone and spoke. “Queen here. Edmundo Forero is ours. En route to second target.”

  “Copy that, Queen,” came the voice of Dominick Boucher, who was sitting in for Deep Blue until he was able to free himself from the media shit storm.

  “Out,” she said before disconnecting. With a quick hand signal she motioned for the team to move and they were off again, working their way through the town with Edmundo in tow. As hoped, the old man’s light frame combined with the downward climb allowed them to move just as quickly.

  Reaching the bottom of the hill, they stopped at the edge of the main street. Tavio’s home, and their LZ, lay on the other side. But before they could make a move, a loud car engine roared at the top of the street. It was followed by the squeal of braking tires and the shouts of men. While the team fell back, Queen chanced a look up the mountain road and saw three jeeps, large machine guns mounted on each, and fifteen armed men flooding into Edmundo’s home.

  Ducking into the shadows, she activated her throat mic again. “Mission has been compromised. Local authorities were tipped off.”

  She didn’t wait for a reply before switching off and prepping her UMP submachine gun. She suspected they wouldn’t escape without a fight. A second set of engines, coming from below, confirmed her fears. She turned to the Delta team behind her and pointed to Edmundo. “Leave him and be ready to haul ass.”

  The old man was placed on the ground were he would sleep peacefully through the chaos that would soon add more scars to the town.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rome, Italy

  THREE MISSISSIPPI!

  Pierce stood, bolted out and around the debris they’d been hiding behind, raised his fist, aimed, and threw the only punch he was sure he’d get to make. Aiming was difficult in the darkness, but he saw the silhouette of a head and tried to direct his fist just below. Strike the throat … strike the throat … strike the—contact.

  The impact was solid, knuckles on bone.

  Not a soft throat.

  And it took all of Pierce’s self-control to not shout out in pain. His fist ached and his arm tingled. But he had made contact.

  A dull thud sounded as the attackee collapsed at his feet.

  Pierce’s adrenaline surged as he realized he’d taken the guard out with a single punch to the head. For a moment he understood the rush King must feel when on a mission. Then King’s flashlight clicked on revealing the man he had attacked.

  He was young and unconscious, dressed in a pink dress shirt, holding a black dress coat in his flaccid arms.

  Not a guard.

  The light drifted toward the body at Pierce’s feet. When he saw the face, he stepped back with a hand to his mouth. “Oh God.”

  King moved to the pretty young woman and checked her pulse. She was alive, which was good for her and his friend’s psyche. “She’s alive,” he said, then took her by the arms. “Get the guy.”

  They dragged the couple who’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time behind the remains of the temple’s interior walls. King could see Pierce was distracted over hitting the woman. “It had to be done,” King said. “If you didn’t do it, I would have.”

  “So this was a ‘can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs’ situation?”

  King nodded. “Sometimes you have to be a bad parent to be a good parent.”

  Pierce let out a quiet “Huh” as a memory of King’s sister returned. “Julie used to say that.”

  With a grin, King said, “So did my dad.”

  Pierce looked at his fist with a grin. “It was a good punch.”

  King clapped him on the shoulder. “Would have made Jules proud.”

  They both fought against laughing. They both knew that Julie had been a strident feminist who believed men and women should be treated equally in every way, including combat. Which is why she worked so hard to defy the system and become a fighter pilot. She really would have been proud.

  King led him back to the northwest corner of the temple. To the north and east they could see the security guards closing in on their location—flashlights giving away their positions. King knelt down and motioned to where they’d hid the bodies. “They’re here for them.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well, maybe not exactly them, but they’re probably expecting to find drunk socialites pissing on a column, not…” King held up his weapon, letting it finish the sentence for him. “Let’s go.”

  The series of foundation stones remaining within the long rectangular ruins of the Basilica Julia hid the pair as they snuck around the guards. They stopped directly across from the Lacus Curtius and looked to the right. The two guards, walking away from them toward the temple of Castor and Pollux were oblivious to their presence. But the guards approaching from the other side were now facing them, albeit from more than one hundred feet away. King quickly judged the distance and the intensity of the flashlight beams and decided it was too risky.

  Then he saw all four flashlights turn toward the temple of Castor and Pollux. He grabbed Pierce’s shirt and pulled him up. “Let’s go!”

  They hopped the small black fence and crouch-ran across the footpath. The ruins on the other side, along with a short, low-hanging tree, provided ample cover. Concealed again, they headed for the ancient pit long since covered. King was surprised to find the structure built over the pit to be constructed of metal poles and beams. The thing was solid and held a large flat roof at an angle to divert rainfall. They crawled beneath the low roof and inspected the site.

  Aged rectangular blocks of white marble were laid out in grids on either side of a circular, layered pit. Two layers led down, like steps, to a flat, stone base. A stone on the top of the pit’s far side had been moved out of alignment with the rest, ruining the circle.

  It was, in every way, unremarkable. Despite its mysterious origins, King could see nothing that made this site worthwhile … or worthy of a rain guard when the rest of the far more extravagant forum was left to brave the elements. “Why is this covered?” he asked.

  Pierce scratched his head. “I’ve heard that before it was covered rain would collect there—” He pointed to the small basin. “And would leak through to whatever is beyond. They feared erosion would undermine the stability
of the site and possibly the surrounding sites as well, so they covered it up. Why do you ask?”

  “Just seems odd. What do you think is down there?”

  “Aside from a chasm created by Zeus’s lightning bolt? The entire area surrounding this hill was a swamp before Rome was built. Today it would have been a protected wetland. They drained the swamps and built the city. Best guess is it’s an underground lake. This whole area of the city is probably full of underground rivers, too. Without the swamps, the whole system might be dry now, but really, who knows.”

  King sighed. None of this was helpful. He stood to get a better look at the pit and hit his head on the low-hanging ceiling. The metal sheet sounded out like a gong. “Shit,” he whispered, knowing the guards would soon be upon them.

  Ignoring the panicked whispers of Pierce and the distant voices of the guards, King focused his attention on the pit. Once again, there were no markers of any kind. Then he looked up at the ceiling. Its plain surface held no clues, either, but the two I-beams supporting the ceiling did. They were separated by five feet, each crossing over the circle of stones. He mentally stripped the ceiling away and pictured the I-beams over the circular pit.

  King jumped into the pit, scouring every surface for something more.

  “Did you find something?” Pierce asked, joining him at the bottom of the two-foot-deep depression. “The guards will be here any second!”

  “The I-beams,” King said. “From above, they cross over the circle.”

  Pierce saw the image in his mind. The symbol of the Herculean Society. But not quite. The circle was broken. “Help me move this,” Pierce said, taking hold of the misaligned stone. “Pull it back into the circle!”