Through the teasing, soft good-byes drifted from the corner. “See you soon. Love you, baby.”
Kissing noises squeaked from the team, taunting Maangi.
“Ignore them,” Maangi said to his girlfriend. “They’re just jealous.”
“More like feel sorry for her,” said the twangy voice of Specialist Roger Palchinski, the whitest, blondest cowboy anyone had ever met. “Stuck with you for the rest of her life.”
“They aren’t married,” Cell pointed out.
“Not yet,” the girlfriend laughed.
“That’s right—make an honest man of him,” Palchinski said. “Lord knows we’ve tried!”
Cell laughed. “Tried and failed.”
Soft thuds outside the room reached Tox’s ears. Sounded like footsteps—quick, heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs of the building. Someone was coming, and in a hurry. “Shh.” His gaze flicked to the door, nerves buzzing. Nobody was supposed to know they were here.
“Shut up,” Maangi said, waving off their taunting.
A sliver of light erupted beneath the door. Hallway.
Tox shot up in a silent, fluid move, unholstering the weapon strapped to his thigh. He snapped it up, noting in his periphery that Ram had done the same, then rushed to the door, positioning himself to the left.
Shadows fractured the defiant beam of light.
Thud! Thud—thud!
Tox felt each pound on the door against his chest. Silence collapsed the lightheartedness in the room. In its place erupted the unmistakable, skilled response of the ODA team.
“Who is it?” Tox kept the question neutral, his voice edged in alarm—as would any citizen awakened at 2330 hours.
“John Latham.”
Assistant to Ambassador Auttenburg. At this hour? A dozen scenarios presented themselves in that instant. The obvious—something was wrong. Not-so-obvious—was Latham alone on the other side of the door? Had someone coerced him into bringing trouble to Tox and his men?
Unlikely. Only because Boko Haram would’ve bombed the crud out of this place—ambushing was a step up for them.
Let him in. Tox breathed out as he slid his gaze to where Ram stood wrapped in shadows, the thin light casting enough illumination on the Israeli-born soldier for their gazes to connect. Though only the vague outline of his team could be seen, Tox used hand signals to position them for kill shots.
Then he refocused himself. Kept his grip natural. Shoulders forward. After a steadying breath, he gave Ram and Maangi, who flanked the door, a deliberate nod.
The lock snicked. Ram yanked the door open.
A rotund shape shifted forward. “Why’s it so dark—”
Maangi grabbed the intruder by the collar. Pulled him forward. The door nearly collided with the hefty man as it slammed shut.
Ram swiped a leg and pushed the man down. Landed with his knee at the base of the guy’s neck. Sliding in behind the others, Cell flipped the locks.
“Augh!” Latham bellowed as Ram hooked his arm and drew it up behind him. “What the—”
“Nobody knows we’re here,” Tox said.
“Obviously I do,” Latham grunted. “The ambassador sent me over here to get you.”
“He could’ve called.”
“No.” Sweat beaded on Latham’s balding scalp and stubbly upper lip. He tried to peer up at Tox, but Ram applied more pressure until he yelped and stopped resisting. “Okay, okay!”
“Why can’t he call?”
“No record,” Latham managed. “Can’t have a record of this. He needs you. There are VIPs in country.”
Still squatting on the overweight intruder, Ram adjusted the knit beanie he wore in place of a ball cap. “UN building is less than a mile away.”
Tox nodded. “Lots of VIPs in country.”
“No.” Latham grunted a laugh. “Not like this.”
Tox considered him, the way he suddenly seemed to pale. They hadn’t been bombed or attacked since his intrusion. “Get him up.” He took a step back, weapon down and to the side. “On your feet, nice and easy, Latham.”
The man came to his knees, then pushed up with another meaty grunt. His gaze skidded around the room, eyes wide and almost frustrated. “I’m not the bad guy.”
“You’re keeping me from sleep,” Cell said. “That makes you the bad guy.”
With a huff, Latham shook his head and locked gazes with Tox again. “You’re Sergeant Russell?”
“Why does the ambassador want me?” Tox holstered his weapon.
“Like I was trying to say,” Latham squeaked, “VIPs went missing.”
“Define ‘missing,’” Ram demanded.
“They were in a village on a humanitarian visit when terrorists came in guns blazing and kidnapped them.”
“That’s normally what terrorists do.” Maangi moved to his cot and sat down.
Tox folded his arms. “You have reservists training nationals here for exactly this scenario.”
“No.”
“You keep using that word . . .” Cell muttered.
“These aren’t just normal VIPs.” Latham tugged a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his brow.
Cell snickered. “What, are they VIP VIPs?”
“Yes.” Earnest and forceful, Latham seared Cell with a foul look then shifted his attention back to Tox. “We’re wasting time, and their lives are on the line.”
“We rush this, our lives are on the line,” Ram said.
“You want us to move? Tell us what’s happening.” Tox thrust his chin toward the door. “We step out there, we could be walking into a trap.”
“Riddled with bullets,” Maangi agreed.
“You walk out any door or hut here and that can happen.” Latham’s lip curled. “I thought you were soldiers.”
“Soldiers.” Ram shook his head. “Not lackeys.”
“You were brought here for this—as a contingency.”
Palchinski joined the conversation. “Bull.”
Latham held up his hands. “I can’t say more. Not here.” His hazel eyes glanced around, as if someone might overhear. “If you’ll come with me, the ambassador and DCM will explain everything.”
Ram’s eyebrows rose, mirroring the thought pinging through Tox. The Deputy Chief of Mission acted as the primary crisis manager before, during, and after an emergency. So . . . what emergency had occurred? A VIP alone wouldn’t warrant such costly preventatives.
High-ranking VIPs snatched on a humanitarian mission.
A painful realization dawned on Tox. “How long were the VIPs in country before they went missing?”
Latham shrugged again. “If you’ll—”
“Who was snatched?”
“I can’t.” Latham looked as frustrated as Tox. “I can’t tell you. Not here. Please.” He motioned a thick arm toward the door, exposing a dark stain of sweat on his gray suit. “They’re waiting.”
Cold fingers of dread traced Tox’s spine. The pieces made too much sense now that they’d been splayed before him. “Gear up,” he said to his team. “Looks like we have a meeting with the ambassador.” As he maintained a lock on the assistant, Tox accepted his rucksack from Ram.
The Israeli leaned closer, head angled in. “You got an idea what’s going on?”
Not just an idea. Everything Latham said, plus all the stuff he hadn’t, added up to one logical conclusion. “Yeah.”
“And?”
As he stalked to the door, Tox growled, “Things just got really messed up.”
2
“Sergeant Russell?”
Tox extended a hand as he approached Ambassador Todd Auttenburg. “Sir.”
The diplomat stood an impressive six three, his bearing an echo of his former military career. “Welcome.” He wore his fifty-something years with dignity, confidence, and a smattering of gray at his temples. “Good to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you, young man.”
Tox avoided the compliment and the ambassador’s gaze, focusing on his team filling the
conference room.
“I’m sorry to have John rustle you out of bed at this hour, but it couldn’t wait.”
“What couldn’t wait, sir?” Ram tugged back a chair and lowered himself into it.
“Shouldn’t we be asking who couldn’t wait?” Cell grabbed the carafe of coffee on the table. When he tilted it toward a black ceramic mug and found it empty, he slammed it down in a huff.
“Indeed,” Auttenburg said with a laugh. “Handling times like this requires sensitivity and—” His gaze slid to the door. “Ah.”
As a woman in her early forties entered, Tox felt the tension of the team rise then fall. Hair in a tight bun that matched her stiff movements, she offered only a nod to his men. No smile. No pleasantries. No respect.
“This is Yelena Ibarra, our DCM.”
“Gentlemen,” she finally said, her accent thick. Spanish. “If you’ll have a seat, we can get this under way.”
Something about her movements, the raw emotional crack in her voice pushed Tox into a leather chair near the ambassador.
She motioned to Latham, who worked a small device that projected a map onto a bare wall. “At 1900, a team of five Americans and five Nigerians were in this village forty miles outside Abuja on a medical and educational initiative.”
That sounded right, fit with Tox’s unspoken theory.
“Initiative,” Ram repeated.
“Yes.” Ibarra offered no more explanation.
But Ram wasn’t letting it go. The Israeli adjusted his beanie. “Doctors? Nurses?”
She wet her lips. “Yes, two.”
“Two out of ten were medical.” Which meant eight weren’t.
She nodded.
“Teachers?” Shifting in his seat and stroking his jaw, Ram stared at the map, a red X marking the village.
For Tox, hope that this wasn’t what he dreaded slowly slid into a crevasse. He’d kept his thoughts, his questions to himself—only because Ram voiced the same ones. Except the main question. Tox would hold that close to his tactical vest for now.
“Mm-hm,” Ibarra replied.
“So not university,” Ram deduced, “because you would’ve corrected me and said professors.”
Ibarra glanced at the ambassador but didn’t meet his eyes. She drew in a shaky breath. “Professions aren’t the matter here. That they were set upon by terrorists associated with Boko Haram is our concern. We’ve accounted for five of those attacked—two were killed, the other three are in hospital.”
Tox narrowed his eyes. The attacks by Boko Haram had climbed in the months since Operation Flush. But this . . . “You called in pros before this VIP envoy arrived.” He rapped his knuckles on the table.
Ram nodded. “Which tells us you knew trouble was coming.”
“Or had concerns about these particular VIPs,” Tox clarified.
Ibarra swallowed, her brown complexion blanching. “What you need to—”
“Stop.” Tox’s hope slid another dozen feet down that crevasse. He sat forward, an elbow on the table as he waved. “Just give it to us.”
Auttenburg let out a heavy sigh. “For reasons that are probably obvious, we can’t inform anyone of the identities of the—”
“So it’s Montrose.”
The ambassador’s defensive posturing told Tox he was right. He glanced at Ram.
“Gold seal package,” Ram muttered.
Tox nodded. “Looks like.” Politicians. He could smell their stench in the air.
“The president?” Cell said, eyes wide.
“Look, I know—”
“No.” Tox shook his head amid a disbelieving laugh. “No, you don’t know.” He took a steadying breath. “You don’t know me or my team. You don’t know what you’re up against.”
“But I do know you’re a soldier. One of the best, according to your record and your commanding officers. A veritable legend.” Auttenburg’s eyes narrowed. “General Coffino said you knew how to do the job without politics getting in the way.”
“Politics.” Ram nodded again. “Nice way to put it.”
Tox tried to bury his feelings, his hatred of politicians. His family had been involved in the Potomac two-step for as long as he could remember, his grandfather’s legacy in Virginia still opening doors and offices. Tox hated it. Hated the pat-my-back-I’ll-pat-yours maneuvering that consumed the air he breathed growing up. Now . . . now he had to save the president. He snorted. Dad would love this. So would Galen. His brother was running against Montrose. Which meant if Tox failed, he might be accused of helping Galen take the office.
“Kind of poetic,” Cell added.
Tox lifted a hand to silence the team who backed him up, understood his frustration. “I’d suggest you call in an MWD team,” he said, taking ownership of the mission despite his disgust of the objective. “Get a combat tracking team.”
Auttenburg smiled. “Touched down fifteen minutes ago. They’re waiting on us.”
Tox came to his feet. “Let’s get moving, then.”
Because even if he’d rather leave the president in some backwater hole, Tox wouldn’t abandon innocents to the hands of terrorists.
****
— Johns Hopkins University, Maryland — “Hālip namurrati . . . Kakkē lā mahri.” Tzivia Khalon slid her long, thin fingers along the image of the ancient text. Narrowing her eyes, she worked the transliteration, envying Dr. Cathey’s linguistic skills, his ability with Akkadian and Hebrew and a gazillion other ancient languages. Since she only spoke two, his abilities seemed endless. But she focused. Did her best, cross-referencing words with the online dictionary.
“ . . . enveloped in terrifying splendor . . .” That was right. Or at least a very close transliteration. The other part of the selection that snagged her attention could be loosely translated “irresistible weapon.”
A shudder pushed her away from the text. She leaned back in her chair, the joints squeaking in obnoxious protest.
“I think I need an irresistible weapon.”
She slid her gaze to her lab partner, Noel Garelli. Though three years younger than the thirty-one-year old, she had more drive than him. “You’d want a weapon that could lay waste to cities and villages, killing thousands? Maybe millions?”
“Name an Assyrian king who wasn’t powerful and renowned.”
As if that proved his point. In reality, it proved hers. “They were renowned because they were viciously violent. They accepted nothing but complete subjugation—or death. There was no such thing as compromise.” When he shrugged, she widened her eyes. “You need a padded room.”
“I need power like Ashurnasirpal II to dissolve continents and seas with mere words. Or Tiglath-Pileser I, whose weapon made the world quiver.” He shrugged again and tried to rake his fingers through his ratty knot of thick black hair. “Should’ve let me give that mace a go before you shipped it off to Dr. C.”
She scoffed. “As if I’d entrust any priceless piece of antiquity to your hands. Weapons like those belong relegated to history, vanished from existence. Men today would lose their minds.”
Why the good doctor approved the temporary loan of an ancient weapon purported to have belonged to Tiglath-Pileser III—who laid waste to one nation after another, decimated countries, and murdered millions—to a Syrian prince for a ceremony was beyond her. Well, except for the funding. When wads of cash were offered in exchange for a few hours with an artifact, no one could argue, since it meant they all kept their jobs.
And now that weapon, a mace, would be used as a ceremonial gesture in the swearing in of a Syrian president.
Power. In the hands of a man. Again.
But she’d done her job and shipped the crates off last week. Still, she remembered the heebies that thing piled on top of her jeebies. Tzivia wet her lips as she once more pulled up pictures of the mace. Seven barbed, steel flanges were brazed around a central core with a conical tip. Carved with inscriptions from Rezin, king of Damascus, the steel core screwed into a wood handle that bore bloodsta
ins. The worn, smooth wood spoke of years of use by Rezin.
Weapon of my god, Ashur
Rained down fire and destruction “Royal propaganda,” Tzivia whispered and shook her head. “Still happening thousands of years later.”
There had to be a scientific justification for the mace’s presence in so many villages that suffered. Supernatural postulations propped up those with weak belief systems, contributed to those with mental illness. Weak minds, weak crutches.
Regardless of how it happened, the centuries-old Mace of Death—or Mace of Subjugation, or even sometimes called the Celestial Scepter—was symbolically tied to the deaths of millions. The annihilation of complete people groups.
Tzivia’s phone vibrated, dancing across her desk. Though she didn’t recognize the number, she answered, grateful—desperate?—for a distraction. “Hello?”
“Thank you for taking my call. I have important details about the mace and its travel to Nigeria.”
“Oh.” Tzivia glanced at her monitor. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Cathey isn’t—” She snapped her mouth closed. Then frowned. “Wait. No. It went to Syria, not Nigeria.” She froze. “How do you even know—”
“It is lost. And you must find it. Return it to the cradle.”
Lost? That wasn’t possible. She wagged her hand at Noel and mouthed manifest then pointed to her monitor. “I’m not sure who you are. But—”
“Tzivia Khalon, daughter of Eli Khalon, the task is yours.”
Dau— “Who are you? How do you know my father?” Alarm speared her. Why would this man use her father’s name—her name? “I’m sorry, I really think there’s a mistake. If you want to talk to Dr. Cathey—”
“Have you talked to him recently?”
The way he said that caused a splinter of doubt about the professor’s safety to form. “That’s not very nice.”
Noel was at her side, frowning. Tzivia hit the speakerphone button.
“War is rarely nice, young one.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up—”
“He will call. Go to Syria, Tzivia. You must help the warrior. They will need you.”
“Who? Dr. Cathey?” She laughed. The professor might have championed her career, hiring her to this position as she worked toward her PhD, but he wasn’t going to hand her the golden scepter of history when he’d worked for this his entire career.
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