“Dieu sait qui a tort et a péché. Il va bientot arriver malheur à ceux qui nous ont condamnés à mort.”
Noel stopped, soda bottle to his lips, staring at her.
Only then did she realize the caller had stopped speaking. Tzivia blinked at her smartphone, watching the symbol switch to CALL ENDED. “That was thirty seconds of craziness.” She shook her head and pocketed her phone, ignoring the fear drenching her system. She dug her fingers into the ponytail at the base of her neck.
Noel twisted his mouth to the side.
“What?” she asked.
He narrowed his eyes. “God knows . . .” He jogged over to his workstation.
“You and your religion. Sometimes—”
“Shh!” He snapped his fingers at her, severing her retort as he scribbled frantically.
Frowning, Tzivia closed the distance between them. “What?”
He jerked upright, holding a scrap of paper, scanning it and mumbling. “God knows what—no, no. That’d be . . .” He scratched out a word. Wrote more, muttering. “God knows who is wrong and has done wrong—” More scratching. “Sinned!”
“What?” Her nerves buzzed.
“‘God knows who is wrong and has sinned.’”
“You said that already.”
He continued, “‘Soon a calamity will occur to those who have condemned us to death.’”
A wave of heat swept over her, swirling nausea in her stomach. She hated this stuff. Loved archaeology and antiquity. Hated the religious-rooted superstitions that choked reason.
But this . . . this just felt wrong.
She met Noel’s gray eyes. She had to change the subject. Had to pull some normalcy back into the insanity. “Have you heard from Dr. C?”
“Not since he landed two days ago.”
Nodding, she turned to her computer. “See if you can find him.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Looking up the mace’s manifest. That man just said the mace was lost.”
“That would be some mighty bad luck.”
Tzivia grunted.
The lab phone rang, its noise needling her nerves. Frustration wrapped its hot fingers around her as she grabbed the phone. “Archaeologi—”
“It’s not here!”
She froze. “Dr. Cathey?” A strange chill wormed down her spine.
“What have you done to me? It’s not here, Tzivia!”
Swallowing hard did nothing to dispel the knot at the back of her throat. “What isn’t there?”
“What do you think, child? The mace!”
Hand on her forehead, she tried to push the ominous words of Mr. French from her thoughts. “You’re sure?” This had to be more of Dr. Cathey’s absentmindedness. “Noel and I packed the crate ourselves.”
“Of course I’m sure! I’ve gone through every box several times. The one that should have held the mace contained nothing but a dead roach!”
Tzivia shifted in her chair. Looked around, as if the ancient weapon would be sitting on a table nearby.
“We can’t lose the funding, not now.”
“I’m sure it’s there. Did you set it”—she groped for plausible scenarios—“in another box? Maybe you wrapped it in the tissue. Remember when Noel accidentally put the circlet—”
“Blast it all, Tzivia! The mace is not here. This is serious. Not only is it significant to the dedication ceremony for Prince Badi al Zaman, it’s deadly powerful if handled improperly.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose at his superstitious beliefs and the words she knew were coming next.
“I need you here, Tzivia.”
She closed her eyes. “You know I can’t do that.” The last time she’d traveled for the university, France had let her in but then refused to let her leave. Her brother had worked for weeks to sort things out.
“Tzi, if these men find out the mace is missing . . .” he whispered, as if crouching behind the fear he didn’t mention. “You read the inscriptions. You know what Syrian rulers did with this weapon. We must make sure that doesn’t happen now. Please, I need you here. We must find this—now. Before people start dying.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “They’re fables, Doctor—”
“No! No, I don’t think they are. I—”
“You must stop blurring your faith and theology with historical fact, Dr. Cathey. This is—”
“Must you patronize me? I can’t let this happen, Tzivia. I can’t.”
“We can do nothing but report this to the authorities.”
Quiet stretched through the connection.
“No . . . I—I have an idea.”
Tzivia shifted. She could sense his contemplation. Could almost see his gray eyes flickering beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Please don’t do something crazy.”
“Not crazy. Just imperative.”
She recalled the last time he had an imperative. The university had made a considerable donation to the German antiquities committee to smooth ruffled feathers. “Doctor, please—”
“I must. I must do this.”
The line went dead.
3
— Near Abuja, Nigeria —
Discerning brown eyes locked onto Tox. The military working dog lay stretched across the ground, head up, ears erect. The dog’s mouth snapped closed as the team approached the handler, who stood with about twenty National Guardsmen in the dusty village where the president, his wife, and Secret Service agents had been taken.
“Sergeant Russell?” A man with a K-9 patch stepped forward. “Sergeant Drew Keogh.” The MWD came to a sitting position, his broad chest rippling with restraint, as the team met the handler. “This is VVolt N629—two Vs in his name because he was bred at Lackland Air Force Base.” The tan and black Belgian Malinois panted lazily once the initial introductions were made. “And before you ask, it’s not pronounced ‘vee-volt.’ It’s just VVolt.”
“Has he been deployed?” Tox asked.
Keogh nodded. “Three tours.”
“Here,” Auttenburg said. A dark-skinned man next to him handed off a T-shirt and a pink blouse. “These belonged to the missing VIPs.”
Keogh nodded and bent toward his MWD with the items of clothing.
Tox eyed the pieces. Annoyance hit him and twisted into something he didn’t recognize. Didn’t want to recognize. “Let’s do this.” He slid down his Oakleys, then swung his M4A1 around in front, eyeing the three OD-green Humvees across the road. This wasn’t Afghanistan or Iraq, but with Boko Haram brazenly snatching an American president in broad daylight, stakes were high. For Tox, that meant the gloves were off. “Round up the villagers. Search the huts.”
“Akoni will tell them to come out,” Auttenburg said.
A tall, skinny Nigerian moved ahead, hands cupped over his mouth, shouting to the villagers in the native language. Faces appeared, at first just lighter shades of the darkened huts, but then clearer, wary as they stepped into the open.
Ram, Cell, Palchinski, and Maangi worked seamlessly, guiding the villagers with respect and firmness. Tox trailed Keogh and VVolt, who zigzagged down the road, nose inhaling dust as he tracked the scents.
“Is it true?” Keogh asked, wagging the clothing items. “It’s President Montrose and his wife?”
Eyes on the road and the dog, Tox kept moving. It didn’t matter if it was Montrose or some tourist. If they were American, soldiers or innocents, they had a duty to protect and defend.
“What?” Keogh said with a laugh. “You didn’t vote for him?”
Tox gritted his teeth.
Keogh tucked away the scent pieces. “It’s okay, man. But we can’t let a slight like this stand. These people need to know a threat like this will get answered.” Keogh swung a hand out to the side, stopping Tox. “Whoa.”
Ahead, VVolt did a switchback. Then another. His rhythm of sniffing shifted, registering more like a sucking sound. The sleek MWD swerved left. Stopped. Raised his snout, his lower jaw bouncing as he pulled in air.
“He got something?” Tox asked, signaling Ram and Maangi.
“Looks like.” Keogh started toward his dog.
VVolt launched between two thatch-roofed huts. Tox and Keogh sprinted after him. Tox spoke into his communications device to ensure his team knew what was happening. “Delta, MWD has a positive hit. Tracking in blue two,” he said, referencing the crude map on which they’d designated different quadrants of the village for ease of reporting.
VVolt slowed. Stopped, his body almost invisible in the knee-high tan grass that swayed as he hunted the scent. Unlike a German shepherd, the Malinois had a shorter coat and leaner frame that made him more agile. He trotted back and forth, his nose on the ground. Up in the air. A few more paces hauling in air, his determination unflappable.
“What if he can’t find it?” Tox asked Keogh.
“He won’t stop unless I tell him to.”
Tox nodded, amazed, but his gaze bounced to the tree line. It wasn’t a dense wood, but it was enough to hide trouble and make finding missing objectives difficult. He keyed his mic. “Auttenburg.”
“Yeah. I’m here—go ahead.”
“Did your people check the woods?”
“Of course.”
“Copy.” Shades of green, some waxy and some not. Rustling leaves. But something . . . something about this place . . . Though he kept VVolt and Keogh in his periphery, Tox edged closer to the trees. Kept his weapon tight against his shoulder.
“Got something?” Ram asked, closing in on the left.
“I don’t kn—”
VVolt suddenly made a sharp turn and bolted into the woods.
At the same time, Tox saw a blur of red a half-dozen feet in. He snapped up a closed fist. Ram and Maangi did the same, one on each side of him. “Call back the dog.” They didn’t need their secret weapon getting killed.
Keogh clicked his tongue. Almost immediately, the grass swayed as VVolt emerged. He sidled up next to his handler and sat.
A shot cracked through the hot day.
Crouching, Tox peered through the foliage. Almost smiled. Thank you. Now he knew which direction to go. And that they were on the right track. His instincts had been correct. He hadn’t been sure until that shot. Whether the target was shooting at the dog or the team, Tox didn’t know. Didn’t care. They were shooting. That made them hostile. Made him focused.
“Was that a gunshot?” The grating voice of Auttenburg severed Tox’s focus.
“Copy.” He sent Ram right and Maangi left. “Stay close,” he ordered Keogh as he ran half-bent straight into the trees.
Like a soggy blanket, the oppressive humidity of the woods draped his shoulders and chest. Breathing became a little harder in the thick air, but the immediate relief of being out of the sun countered that.
Tox shouldered up to a tree. A double pat to his back signaled Keogh’s readiness behind him.
Tox rushed to another trunk and scanned the area. With Ram and Maangi flanking him, he swept his line of sight in a pie pattern, intersecting on the left with Maangi and on the right with Ram. Then back again. Back and forth. One breath and step at a time. Slinking deeper into the woods. Farther from the guardsmen.
Crack!
Tox dropped to a knee at the second shot, scanning. Probing the dimness that seemed allied with the rebels. Nothing but green vegetation stared back. He waited.
“Anyone got a twenty on that shooter?” Palchinski’s voice crackled through the comms.
“Negative,” Cell answered.
Tox trained his mind and ears to the silence. Because there wasn’t silence—there were clues everywhere in an environment like this. He just had to listen for it. The crunch of a leaf. The squish of muck. The shooter would move, whether a hand to rack another round or a foot to step farther from them. And when he did, Tox would hear him.
The steady pant of the Belgian Malinois blended with the normal wood noises. Casual, relaxed. But have that hostile show his face, and VVolt would be all over him. That gave Tox a measure of comfort. He scanned left, looking beyond the dog to the greenery.
VVolt tensed—his pink tongue vanished as his powerful jaws closed. Ears swiveled. Shoulders straightened. His neck craned as he homed in on something to Tox’s eleven o’clock.
Thanks, buddy. Tox aimed in that direction. A strange shift in the colors. Gotcha. He eased back the trigger. A short burst.
A man leapt from the shadows, running for all he was worth deeper into the woods.
“VVolt, attaque!” Keogh ordered.
The eighty-pound MWD that had been sitting casually at Tox’s side vaulted into the air as if ejected from a catapult. Tearing up the litter of the forest floor, VVolt shot forward. Tox and Keogh sprinted after the MWD, hopping over fallen trees and shrubs, dodging rocks.
A primal scream rent the woods.
“Attaboy,” Keogh huffed out.
Ten seconds later, they came upon the scene. Teeth clamped around the leg of the shooter, VVolt hunkered down, his back legs digging in as he thrashed his thick, corded neck back and forth. The man howled, reaching toward the dog and then withdrawing his hand. He threw himself back and screamed like a little girl.
“Hands, hands, hands,” Tox shouted as he took a bead on the shooter.
Tears carving deep rivulets in his dirty face, the man dropped back with a cry of agony.
“VVolt, out!” Keogh said.
But VVolt seemed as annoyed with the shooter as Tox was, giving one more strong thrash.
“Out, out!” Keogh repeated.
With an almost disgusted huff, the MWD disengaged his teeth from the man’s flesh and stepped back. Hackles still up, he stood poised to attack again. A hand signal brought VVolt back to his handler. He heeled, blood at the edges of his mouth, panting. Keen brown eyes practically begging the shooter to let him play tackle again.
With no pity, Maangi dropped on the wounded man, pinning him with a knee to the neck. It gave Tox a moment to survey the area. “Eyes out. He probably wasn’t alone.” He was a sentry. Guarding . . . what?
“Primary One,” Tox said into his mic to the ambassador. “We need that interpreter at our location.”
“You got the shooter? Great. Okay. Sending him in,” Auttenburg replied.
“Yo,” Cell said, “what’s with your dog?”
Tox glanced at VVolt, who was sniffing the ground, turning, twitching.
“I—”
VVolt trotted a half-dozen paces to Tox’s nine o’clock. Sniffed. Pressed his nose to the dirt, took a long draught of the scene, then reared back and jammed both paws into the dirt. He dug—hard. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch-scratch.
Scritch! Nails scratched cement.
“A bunker!”
4
On a knee, Tox aimed his weapon and SureFire tactical flashlight at the black hole as Cell lifted the hatch. Light spilled over rudimentary steps, chasing the darkness into the depths of the earth. Tox bent so he could see farther into the shaft to be sure hostiles weren’t taking a bead on them. He gave a nod, and Keogh followed VVolt down into the pit.
It was crazy how Tox trusted a dog so resolutely, following the MWD into the darkness. Behind him came Ram. Cell, Pal, and Maangi would stay aboveground to guard against an ambush.
“Smells like a trap,” Cell muttered.
Tox couldn’t agree more. Getting buried alive wasn’t the way he wanted to die. Shadows mocked him, shifting and skittering, jacking with his adrenaline.
The sharp crack of VVolt’s bark pounded against Tox’s fear but also yanked him onward. No weapon report. No screams. He rushed forward and spotted the outline of— “A door!” With the handle missing. Tox searched for a way to pry open the barrier.
“Hello?” a faint voice called from the other side.
“Identify yourself!” Ram demanded.
“Walker Wallace,” a second, authoritative voice answered. “US Secret Service. Who are you?”
That was one of the names given to them in the dossier on th
e missing. “US Army. You alone?” Tox asked. As Keogh and VVolt returned topside, he trailed the bright beam of his SureFire along the steel doorframe then back to the locking mechanism.
“Negative. One civilian.”
Tox nodded to Ram, who lifted a small package from a pocket in his tactical vest. “Stand back. We have to blow the door.”
Ram applied the putty-like brick, rigged it with a charge, then gave the signal. They retreated a safe distance and knelt. Cell shifted aside, his back to the door as he monitored their six.
“Clear,” Wallace said.
“Clear!” Ram shouted.
Tox turned his face into the wall to shield himself.
Boom!
The concussion slammed into him. He pushed to his feet and turned. A man stood in the doorway, his guarded expression slowly fading as he took in the team.
Tox recognized him from the MIA photos. “Who’s with you?”
Behind him, a shadow took the form of a disheveled woman, brown hair mussed and hanging just below her shoulders.
“Natalie Montrose?” Tox called out.
“Y-yes.” Though the First Lady stood easily five nine, she had shrunk beneath the weight of the attack and circumstances.
“We’re here to get you home, ma’am.”
A hesitant smile hit her lips. “And Kevin?”
“Soon, ma’am. Let’s go!” Pivoting away, Tox keyed his mic. “Coming up plus two.”
“Copy that,” Maangi said.
Tox climbed the creaking steps up into the jungle.
The ambassador’s voice poured over the comms. “Excellent. Choppers are inbound for them. Who did you find? President Montrose?”
“Silence on the comms.” It wasn’t smart to reveal who they’d found on a radio frequency that could be intercepted. Tox kept moving. “We get anything out of that shooter?”
Ram shook his head. “They said he’s not talking.”
“Surprise, surprise.” Tox focused on the Secret Service agent. “What do you know?”
“The men who hit us spoke Arabic. Said they were heading to Syria.”
The Warrior's Seal (The Tox Files): A Tox Files Novella Page 3