The Warrior's Seal (The Tox Files): A Tox Files Novella

by Kendig, Ronie

  “If they spoke Arabic, how do you know what they said?” Ram asked as they stalked back through the woods to the village and the ambassador’s team.

  Without breaking pace or blinking, Wallace said, “Atakallam al-’arabiya.”

  Annoyance plucked at Tox. The guy should be focused on protecting his charge, not trying to impress people.

  Wallace kept pace. “They assumed we didn’t know Arabic and spoke openly in front of us. They’re headed to some big event in Syria.”

  A glint in the shrubs gave Tox the split-second warning he needed. In his periphery he mentally lined up the two civvies then dove into the agent, who pitched backward and fell on top of the woman. They went down in a huddle just as a shot cracked the hot air.

  5

  — Damascus, Syria —

  Tzivia hovered inside the grand foyer of the palace, the marble floor clapping out her steps. Bug-eye cameras monitored her every move. She held her satchel in both hands, aware of the two guards with their fully automatic weapons trained on her.

  The click of stiletto heels pulled her around. A woman in a business suit, sans hijab, came toward her, extending a hand. “Victoria Glahn,” she said, her accent British.

  “Tzivia Khalon with the Joh—”

  “They said you’re looking for Dr. Cathey.”

  Taken aback by the woman’s sharp tone, Tzivia hesitated but finally nodded. “I am. He—”

  “He’s not here.” Ms. Glahn’s blank expression matched the alabaster busts spread around in the gallery. “He rang my admin yesterday and said he couldn’t come in for a few days.”

  Tzivia slumped, remembering the last words he’d spoken. Please tell me you didn’t do something crazy . . . “Really? He told me—”

  “I must tell you, Miss Khalon, that his disregard for an event of such significance is not taken kindly.” Ms. Glahn’s complaint was as pointed as her nose. “He promised a valuable artifact, one specifically requested by the prince himself, and he has failed on all accounts.”

  So the mace is missing.

  “The prince is outraged.”

  “I think there’s been a mistake.” Tzivia pushed the words out, ignoring her jamming pulse. “Dr. Cathey is fully committed to the presentation of the mace, and—”

  “Really?” The woman lifted her chin. “Then where is it? Where is he?”

  Tzivia might not be wealthy, but she also wasn’t a rug. “Do you seriously think Dr. Cathey, whose entire reputation and career are staked on this event and its subsequent funding, would leave the artifact here days ahead of schedule, at risk of theft or damage?” Tzivia would not allow this snooty woman to make assumptions about one of the kindest men she’d ever worked with. “Perhaps you are used to working with those who give little regard to the cultural history entrusted into their care, but I assure you that Dr. Cathey and Johns Hopkins University do not. And considering the recent thefts and destruction of relics from antiquity happening within this city, caution is demanded by Dr. Cathey.”

  “If it is so important to him, then where is he?”

  Tzivia arched an eyebrow. “Where is your prince?”

  “Busy.”

  “Mm, quite.” Tzivia glanced around, her heart racing. Schooling her expression, she brought her attention back to Ms. Glahn. “You’ve been a great help.”

  “Help? You came here looking for your absentminded professor. And you found . . . ?”

  “So much,” Tzivia said. “Thank you.”

  It took everything in Tzivia to walk calmly and collectedly out of the palace and into the blazing heat. From her briefcase, she retrieved her phone, grateful for the international plan the university bought. She dialed.

  “What’d you find?” Noel asked in one breath.

  “Trouble.” Tzivia strode down the sidewalk and out to the street. “The mace is missing and so is the professor. I’m going to his hotel to see if I can find him.”

  “Okay, you went from trouble to Lara Croft,” Noel said. “What’s going on?”

  “The prince’s event coordinator just told me Dr. Cathey called and said he wasn’t coming in for a few days.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Exactly. I have no idea. I saw the displays—he did those. So I am not sure what’s going on.”

  “Do you think he was . . .”

  “You have too fertile of an imagination, Noel.” She waved at a cab. “I’ll call you when I get to the hotel.”

  The taxi pitched toward the sidewalk, brakes screeching, and she climbed in. It took twenty minutes of feeling like a Ping-Pong ball in a blender before they reached the hotel. As she crossed the lobby, Tzivia scanned faces of those clustered about the marble columns and palm fronds, talking, and those waiting to enter the restaurant. She was hoping—begging—for one thing to go right. For him to be here.

  “May I help you?” a woman sporting a silk, sparkling hijab asked from behind the counter.

  Tzivia rested her forearms on the granite counter. “I’m looking for one of your guests. Cathey. Dr. Joseph Cathey.”

  Bent over the monitor, the checkin attendant typed. Frowned. Typed some more. “Is that Cathy—C-A-T-H-Y?”

  “No, E-Y.”

  “Ah.” She smiled and started typing again. Then another frown.

  “Maybe they misspelled it,” Tzivia offered.

  “Of course.” More typing. More frowns. “I am sorry. There is no Dr. Cathey registered.”

  Tzivia tugged out her phone, scanned her email, and verified the name of the hotel. She showed the screen to the clerk. “He sent me this information. He must be here. Room 213.”

  “Could it be under another name?” The hue of the monitor reflected on her face as she looked closer and frowned. “Wait—he was here. He checked out two days ago.”

  “Checked out?” Tzivia scratched her head and looked around the lobby once more, as if to verify the story. “That makes no sense.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The woman motioned to another customer waiting behind her. “May I help you?”

  Tzivia excused herself and moved to a bench by the window. She tugged out her phone and dialed Noel. “I can’t find him. They said he checked out already—two days ago. It’s like he’s . . . lost.”

  “Seriously?” Noel’s question had more laugh than she could appreciate. “I’m used to him losing his glasses, but losing himself?”

  Tzivia held her long, black hair away from her face. “What if he didn’t lose himself? What if someone . . . ?” She couldn’t say the words.

  “So it’s legitimate when you ask it?” Noel mocked.

  Tzivia rolled her eyes and moved on. “I need to contact the authorities.”

  “Hey, hold up,” Noel said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been checking his accounts while you were talking—”

  “And you know how to do that how?”

  “Long story. But listen—one of his credit cards had a charge—huh. Get this: in Paris.”

  “Paris? What? When?”

  “Uh . . . about two hours ago.”

  A dozen possibilities hit her mind. “So I should just come home, if he’s only traveling across Europe?” Even she didn’t believe that, but it was a legitimate possibility until ruled out.

  “Are you forgetting an ancient artifact with devastating abilities is also missing?”

  “It does not have abilities. People and nature devastate.” She huffed. “And no, I’m not forgetting it.” I just want to get home.

  “Regardless—you need to find out why he’s in Paris—”

  “If it was him.”

  “—and not setting things up for the presentation. Time’s ticking, Tzi.”

  She groaned. “You should be here.”

  “Don’t I wish! So . . . you going to Paris?”

  “No,” Tzivia snapped. She stood and took a measured breath. Was there a choice? “Yes.”

  6

  — Near Abuja, Nigeria — “Down! Down! Shooter
at my two!” Tox scrambled with his rifle and aimed at the location where he’d seen the glint. He fired into the shadowy area. They had to neutralize the threat so choppers could land.

  Ram and Cell rushed forward, tree to tree, advancing on the shooter while Tox took a knee and keyed his mic to communicate the threat to the ambassador and Command.

  Gunfire peppered the brush, then silence dropped. Tox eyed the foliage, the swaying branches. Waiting for the threat to be dealt with. He believed in his team, in his men.

  “Clear!” Ram called.

  Tox grabbed the Secret Service agent’s shirt and tugged him up. “You hurt?”

  “No.”

  “And your charge?”

  “I’m fine,” the First Lady said.

  The comms crackled. “Delta, this is Command.”

  Tox hesitated. “Go ahead.”

  “Choppers en route. Load up and head out.”

  “We’re missing half the package.”

  “Understood. Clear out. Now.”

  “Copy.” With a sigh, he glared at Ram, his own frustration reflected in the other man’s hazel eyes.

  Through his comms, Tox heard Cell clearing the area and the choppers giving their two-minute ETA. Like the well-oiled machine they were, the team had the civvies and ambassador on choppers before another threat could present itself.

  During the long flight to the American drone base in Niger, they relaxed. Cell slept. And if there weren’t so much rotor noise, everyone would probably have heard Palchinski snoring.

  At wheels down, Tox hopped out with Ram and headed for the full bird waiting with some other brass. He saluted. “Colonel Rodriguez.”

  “Sergeant. You did a good job.”

  Tox nodded to the helo. “Only half the package, sir. There a reason we were directed out of the area with a failed objective?”

  “There was.” The colonel turned and started toward a smaller building.

  Tox glanced back to make sure the civvies were taken care of and his team following, then trailed Rodriguez into the clapboard building. Clicking dog’s nails preceded VVolt into the room. The big lug flopped onto the cool cement floor, panting hard, but his squinting eyes gave away his pleasure at a job well done.

  “We’ve got a boatload of trouble,” Colonel Rod said as he flung his head cover on the desk, riffling papers.

  “President Montrose?” Ram asked. “They found him?”

  “No, that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it?” The colonel swabbed his hand over his shorn crop of hair. “Word came out of that village you were just in—people are dying.”

  Tox frowned, confused. “Sir?”

  “Dead and dying. Three down at last word. At least a dozen more sick.”

  Tox angled closer. “From what?”

  “Do I need a bleach bath?” Cell asked.

  “Hanged if I know. But what I do know is that you and your team are on medical hold until it gets sorted.”

  “Medi—” Tox took a step forward. “Sir—”

  “Save it.” Rodriguez dropped into his chair. “This comes from higher than high. Moaning to me isn’t going to change anything.”

  “With all due respect, sir, the president is missing.”

  “And for all we know, he could be dead from whatever’s killing those villagers.”

  The words rammed into Tox with perfect clarity.

  Rodriguez’s chair squeaked as he stabbed a finger in the general direction of Abuja. “That was the third village to get hit.”

  “Hit? What with?”

  “We’re not sure yet. Some sort of virus or toxin.”

  “We’re soldiers, sir,” Tox said. “There are no sick days in the field. We do our job. All day, every day.”

  “Yeah? What about him?” Colonel Rod motioned to Palchinski. “Or are you going to tell me he’s been like that all day?”

  “All week,” Cell muttered. “Can’t help those born ugly, sir.”

  Tox eyed Palchinski. Pale. Sweaty. When Tox shot him a questioning glance, the soldier merely lifted his chin.

  “Respectfully, sir,” Pal said, “don’t put this on me. If I’m going to go out, I’ll go down fighting.”

  Just like a Special Forces soldier.

  “This isn’t about you, son.” The colonel huffed his own frustration. “One—I don’t want to send you home in a body bag, and two—whatever they had in that village, I don’t want you spreading it to anyone else.”

  “Assuming it’s contagious. And that he’s infected,” Maangi said.

  “With what?” Cell looked spooked now.

  “Who cares?” Tox said. Letting the team get hung up on something they couldn’t prove or disprove would only distract them. “We have a mission. A kidnapped American president.”

  “We should interview that agent and the president’s wife,” Ram said.

  Grateful to be getting back on track, Tox threw some more ammo at the target. “We have possible intel in that hangar that may give us a leg up.”

  “Don’t have to convince me.” Expression tight and hard, the colonel gave a clipped nod. “Let me know what you find. They’re in medical now, next to the hangar. And if any of you starts feeling sick”—his eyebrows winged up as he nailed Pal with a look—“hightail it to medical. Understood?”

  “Sir.” Irritation held a fist on Tox’s throat as he headed down the hall. He punched open the door and stepped into the balmy evening, heading toward the hangar, where floodlights subdued the night. Keogh and VVolt spun off to get the MWD fed and watered. Having crossed half the distance, Tox spotted the First Lady just outside the hangar.

  He swung a hand into Ram’s gut. “I’ll talk to her.”

  Ram’s left cheek twitched in a near-smile. “I’ll come with you.”

  Tox started walking but turned back to Pal. “You feeling up to this?”

  He swiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. “Yes, sir.”

  Not convinced the guy was one hundred percent, but also unwilling to put him out of commission too early, Tox turned to the others. “Cell, Pal, talk to the agent. Maangi, when Keogh gets back, see what you can find out about the other villages that got hit with whatever this is.”

  The men headed off.

  “Let’s go meet the First Lady,” Ram said, humor in his voice.

  Tox closed the distance between them and the president’s wife. “Mrs. Montrose.”

  She turned, her arms crossed over her chest as if barely holding it together. “Sergeant Russell.” The way she said it gaped with relief. Her eyes watered. “Your brother is Galen.”

  Tox stiffened.

  She managed a weak, faltering smile. “I’m sure your brother’s campaign for my husband’s job will hold no bearing on how you conduct the mission to get Kevin back.” She looked at Ram. “In fact, I hear you’re the best.”

  “I’ll do my best—as will my team.” He nodded to Ram, who smirked. “We need to know everything you can remember. Start with why you were even there.”

  She bristled. “We were there because I’m working with several charities to bring educational reform to Africa. Nigeria is one of three main endeavors.”

  “And of course, this was a political st—” He bit off the word and changed course. “A political opportunity, so Montrose could have this in the news.”

  “It was good politically, yes. But it was no stunt.” Now her words seethed. “He is genuinely interested in bettering our world.”

  “So he’s involved in the charity with you?”

  The First Lady wet her lips. “No.” She tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “He came because—”

  “Mrs. Montrose,” Ram interrupted, “who put you in that bunker?”

  She bounced her attention from Tox to Ram with a long sigh. “I—I don’t know. We were at the pavilion that Covenant Education had built. It will serve as the primary class location for that village and three others.” She covered her hand with her mouth. “A truck came racing into the village, guns fir
ing. Twenty or thirty men were on top of us before we could do anything. They tore Kevin away. Walker tried to stop them—”

  “The Secret Service agent?”

  “Yes. We had three with us. Along with some native bodyguards.” She shook her head. “But once the natives saw these men, they did nothing. Or almost nothing. They tried, but . . . I don’t know. Maybe they threatened families or villages. One hit me. Next thing I know, I woke up in that bunker.”

  “Anything else?” Tox stood back, his instincts screaming in several different directions.

  “Sorry. It happened so fast.”

  “Did you see them take the president?”

  She shook her head. “Other than to one of their trucks, no.”

  He shared a look with Ram, who then asked, “Which way did the truck go when it left the village? That would help us target our efforts to retrieve your husband.”

  She seemed as frustrated as they were with her answers. “I’m sorry, but once the truck drove between two huts, I couldn’t see anything.”

  Her information wasn’t really useful. “Any reason why someone would want to attack the two of you?” Tox asked.

  “Of course,” she bit out. “Kevin is the president of the United States. There are a lot of people who would jump at the chance to hit us.”

  After a nod, Tox started backing up as Ram thanked her.

  “Sergeant Russell,” she said, tilting her head.

  Molars grinding, he stopped, aware Ram had stepped out of earshot.

  “How can you be so cold?” she hissed at him.

  “Cold?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not being cold. I have a job to do—getting your husband back. In order to do that, I need information. If you don’t have any, then I need to find some elsewhere.”

  “Then . . .” Her brown eyes turned to pools of chocolate. “You’ll look for him, bring him back?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She hunched her shoulders. “Your brother is running for president. He’s . . .” She lifted her chin. “He’s ahead in the polls right now. Some predict he’ll beat Kevin.” She straightened. “I didn’t know if you’d care enough to help.”

  Her insinuation punched him in the gut. With no small amount of indignation, he slammed on his ball cap. “I’ll find him. It’s what I do.”