“Wha—”
She hung up as Mr. Slick’s gaze locked onto her. She felt an icy nausea swirling in the pit of her stomach, especially when he started toward her. To his right, one of his men angled around a crowded table, his jacket swinging open and revealing a sidearm.
“Miss Khalon,” Mr. Slick intoned, still a dozen steps away.
She drew in a thick breath. Placed her hands on the side of the table. If she stood, would they mistake her moves for aggression and shoot her?
When she looked at the man again, she frowned.
Mr. Slick had stopped.
Halfway to her feet, Tzivia paused. Why was he just staring at her? The crazy idea that she’d been sitting on a bomb flicked through her mind. But that couldn’t be—she would’ve set it off when she stood, right? And who would know to plant one at this table for this moment?
Weapons were drawn, the threat escalating.
“Wait,” she breathed, the word catching in her throat. “I—”
She squinted as it dawned on her that something beside her held his attention. Slowly, she pried her gaze from the gun-wielding suits. As she looked over her shoulder, another dart of dread shot through her.
The Stranger from the shop. He was no more than four feet behind her. Staring back at Mr. Slick with ferocity. His expression betrayed nothing. But she could feel it. A deadly ferocity.
Mr. Slick stood unmoving. Tzivia bounced her gaze between them, both frozen like statues. But their eyes—a silent duel was being waged between these two, her stranded in the middle.
Fury roiled through Mr. Slick’s expression.
The Stranger remained unflappable. His face was neither furious nor calm. And yet it was both, in some twisted, remarkable way.
Stumbling backward, Tzivia decided to take the road less watched. Get out while she was still alive. Another two retreating steps . . . but when she looked at the suits again, to her shock, she only saw their retreating backs.
What?
The Stranger stood tall, watching the men depart. It was then she felt the icy cuff of his fingers around her wrist. Eyes as gray and calm as a sea after a storm glided to hers. Held her fast. “Tzivia of Eli, you must fight a battle you do not want to fight.”
“You’re the one—the one who called me at the lab, told me I’d go to Syria. How do you know these things? Why—”
“Your friend is well, but only for a time. His fate will depend on you.” His slight British accent somehow made him more imposing.
“Dr. Cathey?” His name felt like cotton in her mouth. “What fate—where is he?” Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. “Who are you? What do you know about the professor?”
“You ask irrelevant questions.” The storm in his eyes shifted. “You must help the warrior.”
He’d said that the last time. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you or what game you’re playing, but I’m done.”
“The next person you talk to—that’s how you will know where to go.” His fathomless eyes sucked her deeper into his mystery. “You must go. The warrior needs you.”
She wanted to laugh—not because it was funny but because it strained credulity. The warrior? Could he be any more dramatic? This was like a scene from a bad movie. This man had played with her life too much already. “Go where? Who are you? Why—” Her phone belted out a rock song, snagging her attention. Silencing her arguments. She answered, unwilling to look away from the Stranger lest he vanish again. “Ram. What’s wrong?”
“Why aren’t you in the States?”
“I—” She scowled, hating that he knew—he always knew—but knowing it was futile to even ask how. “It’s a long story.” She shook her head, as if to dislodge the defensiveness she automatically felt at the sound of her big brother’s voice. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling?”
“What do you know about the Mace of Subjugation?”
She glanced away in shock. Her world powered down from a rapid-fire, mind-numbing speed to a slow-motion reel. She turned to the Stranger.
Gone.
Tzivia spun around, her heart racing. “Oh no, you don’t. Not again.” She sprinted out of the café, nearly toppling an older woman shuffling around the tables. Turning in quick circles did nothing to help her find the Stranger.
“Tzi? What’s wrong?”
“Everything.” She rubbed her forehead, resisting the urge to scream in frustration. “Never mind.”
“What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“I am.” She blinked, still searching the crowds and cars. “Why are you asking about the mace? How do you even know to ask about it?”
“Just tell me what you know, Tzi. It’s important.”
The next person you talk to—that’s how you will know where to go. A tight band wove around her head and heart, squeezing. The nightmare she’d stepped into was getting worse. She could feel it. “Where are you? What’s happened?”
“People are dying, Tzi. Just tell me about the mace.”
“Wait,” she said, finally assembling the pieces of this nightmare. “You . . . have you seen the mace? Is that why you’re asking about it? Did the mace come in contact with the people dying?”
“Seems that way. Why?”
“Because—” This couldn’t be real. Tzivia pressed a hand against her gurgling stomach. “That mace was supposed to be part of a ceremony for the swearing in of a new prince in Syria. But it was stolen from us.” She’d packed it. She and Noel inventoried it. It was stolen. Not just missing.
“So you think it’s causing the deaths?”
“Ram, it’s just a myth. It’s what the Assyrian kings used to make the people do their will, convincing them Ashur had given them power to force the subjugation of their enemies.”
“What else do you know about it?”
“Little,” she admitted, returning to the table where her tea and tart still waited. “Not enough, obviously. It was used as a symbol of power by many Assyrian kings. There are inscriptions that read like a Who’s Who list of slayers. One king after another used the mace to lay waste to villages, seizing power. Thousands died, dozens of villages eradicated. It wasn’t pretty.”
“How?”
“How what?”
“How were they killed?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” How did her brother always ask the questions that exposed gaping holes in what she presented? “The inscriptions are vague and few. There’s just not enough about the mace to answer that.”
“But you have thoughts.”
And again, he knew how to read what she said as much as what she didn’t. It was better to deflect at this point. “Dr. Cathey believed it was supernatural.”
“But you don’t?”
“I believe there’s a scientific explanation for what many have chalked up to supernatural powers. It could be a bacteria or poison connected to the mace, or something in the wood handle, or the head could be more like a censer or something. Who knows!” Why she felt defensive she didn’t know. They were logical theories. Sound. “I might be able to tell you more once I see the images of the inscriptions again.”
“Images won’t help me—I can’t read them. You can help me. I need you, Tzi.”
The warrior needs you. Ram. Had the stranger been talking about Ram?
“Wait. What are you saying?” Her brother never said those words. Maybe once in her life, when he wanted ten dollars to buy something for that soldier he had a thing for.
“We need answers to stop this thing. Maybe if you could come out here—”
A “no” barked through the background noise of his call.
“But that’s a bad idea,” Ram said, quieter.
That he admitted it wasn’t good piqued her curiosity. “Why? I mean—not that I’d come. I have to find the professor before I do anything else. But why don’t they want me there?”
“We’re on medical hold because of the deaths.”
Medical—“You were exposed?”
“Unknown.�
�
“Well, it’s not the mace—I mean, it can’t be.”
“Why not? Can you prove that?”
She flinched but couldn’t let go. “Think about what you’re asking—”
“Trust me, I’m thinking.” He sounded caustic now. “I’m thinking long and hard because one of our guys might be dying from whatever this thing does.”
“Just tell me where you are. I need to see the mace.”
10
— Niamey, Niger —
“Are you insane?” Tox glowered as Ram ended the call. “You can’t bring a civvie into this, especially with villages under quarantine.”
Hands up, Ram cocked his head. “Tzivia knows her stuff. She’s working on her doctorate in Assyrian antiquities”—his gaze fell—“with a geo-something in Syria. Whatever it’s called. If someone knows about that weapon, it’s her.”
It wasn’t often that Ram Khalon spoke in someone’s defense, so Tox considered his words. But there was still one fact that remained. “But she didn’t know anything.”
Ram’s jaw muscle popped as he pried his gaze from Tox. “She has the resources and access to much more than you and I could ever touch.” He scratched his beard.
“She has expertise we could use,” Colonel Rodriguez said. “Let’s bring her in.”
It was simple. So simple finding Ram’s sister and roping her into this mess. Within an hour, Rodriguez had her airborne and before dawn, the helo landed and delivered her into this nightmare.
Rotor wash whipped at Tox as he waited at the tarmac with Ram. He didn’t particularly like having a civilian involved, especially when there were already two in danger, but what choice did he have now?
An airman jumped out of the helo and turned to assist someone. Another person hopped from the bird, turning to grab a satchel, and Tox waited for the sister to show.
“I’ll kill you if anything happens to her,” Ram said.
“You brought her into this.”
“All the same,” Ram shouted then jogged forward.
With a snort, Tox looked into the bird. Was she coming?
Ram wrapped someone in a hug. Only then did Tox realize it was the second person who’d emerged. The two turned and Tox felt his insides twist. Ram’s sister looked nothing like her scruffy brother. Jet-black hair framed large, dark eyes. Slight but athletic build. Dressed in black tactical pants and a long-sleeved blue shirt, she exuded femininity while simultaneously vying for the role of adventuress.
They bent away from the rotor wash and hustled toward Tox, who started backing up, then pivoted and aimed for the Command building. He held open the door for them.
Once the door snapped out the deafening noise of the choppers, Ram pointed his sister toward a room. Tox followed them.
She tossed her satchel on the table. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Right down to business, huh? He liked that. “The primary evidence—besides bodies stacking up—is a video I tracked down.”
She nodded to a computer. “Show me.”
Tox pulled up the video.
“This is the transcript,” Ram said as he slid her a piece of paper.
“I don’t care what he said. I want to see what he has.” Tzivia leaned in, her shoulder butting against Tox’s. It took everything Tox had to pay attention to the video, not the tiny package next to him that smelled of helo fuel and something spicy.
Tzivia dragged the wireless keyboard and mouse toward her. She made a few clicks, created a screen capture, then amplified the image. She squinted, her lips parting. Though her brother looked like a white boy, she had the coloring one might expect from an Israeli—darker complexion and full lips. How had Ram ended up so rough-looking?
“I can’t tell,” she muttered. “It seems like it might be the mace, but . . .” Her gaze hit Tox’s, and she stilled. He’d been caught admiring her. He didn’t look away. “Is there a way to clean this up?”
“Colonel’s working on it,” Ram said.
“I can show you what the mace looks like.” Tzivia moved around her brother and went to her satchel on the table. “Noel, my lab partner, is scanning the text that pertains to the mace. I should get that soon.”
Ram punched Tox’s chest and pointed a finger at him. “Back off.”
Hand up, Tox went to the table and took the images Tzivia offered. “You said you had this?” The artifact’s unique steel head promised pain to anyone unlucky enough to feel its barbed hooks.
“We shipped it to Syria for the induction of Badi al Zaman. It was supposed to be symbolic of his rule.”
Tox jerked at the name. “Al Zaman.” He looked to Ram, who nodded, affirming his recognition.
“You know him?” Tzivia asked.
He wasn’t sure what to say and what not to say at this point. Best to keep it close to the vest. “The mace—you shipped it, and then . . . it went missing?”
“Manifests show no deviation of course, but—” She shrugged. “Obviously someone intercepted it. The crate arrived with nothing in it but a cockroach.”
The team joined them, Cell giving Ram’s sister a toothy grin and introducing himself. She rolled her eyes and laughed as Maangi welcomed her and got back to business.
“Cell,” Tox said, nodding to Tzivia, “she mentioned a ceremony in Syria with a prince and that mace. It went missing. See what you can find out about that ceremony. It lines up with what Wallace said about the terrorists heading to some big event in Syria.”
Cell’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
“What about your professor?” Ram asked his sister, leaning back against the table. “He’s missing?”
Tzivia nodded. “He was supposed to be setting up the exhibit for the ceremony, then he called to say the mace was missing and I needed to come right away. When I showed up in Syria at the palace, the event coordinator said he’d vanished.”
“But he’d been there?”
She nodded. “Our artifacts were on display, and that’s only possible if Dr. Cathey did that. They don’t get removed from their crates unless he’s there because of the high theft rate among artifacts in Syria. So I checked his hotel—he’d left two days earlier. We tracked him to Paris, but that’s where the trail went cold.”
Intelligent. Quick thinking. She was determined and decisive. She smiled at Tox, and he felt it all the way to his toes.
“Got it.” Cell lifted a hand. “In two days, Prince Badi al Zaman, house of Adnan, will be presented with the Syrian artifact known as the Mace of Death.” He shrugged. “An ironic symbolic gesture of power and peace.”
“Power and peace?” Maangi snorted. “In the hands of that man?”
“This isn’t about peace,” Tox muttered.
Cell scanned whatever he was reading on the monitor, his mouth hanging open. “Dudes, get this—they’re half-brothers. Same father—King Sultan, but Nizar bin Sultan’s mom was a concubine.”
“Al Zaman and bin Sultan?” Tox leaned over Cell’s shoulder, dots mentally connecting at last, albeit slowly and painfully. “That’s how he knew the mace was being shipped over.”
“And decided to steal a little power and wealth for himself,” Ram said.
“So why hit villages in Nigeria when his brother is in Syria?” Maangi shrugged.
“Islam isn’t restricted to one continent,” Ram said.
“No, but his brother is.”
“Or is he?” Tox scrolled through some search results. “What is al Zaman known for?”
“Being a baddy,” Cell shot back, pronouncing baddy so it sounded like Badi.
Ram threw a crumpled soda can at Cell. “Badi al Zaman is known for having his hands in a dozen different pots—oil, opium, trafficking. You name it, he’s probably got a connection, including powerful allies even in the US.”
“So what could he have here?” Tox pushed. “Why would Nigeria be important to him?”
“Drugs, girls.”
Through a glass door, Colonel Rodriguez appeared, and Tox waved hi
m over. “Sir, are the Syrians doing anything in the area—besides Nizar bin Sultan?”
“Rumors are heavy but unproven that they’re taking young girls—well, the ones they aren’t killing. But that’s mostly in the non-Muslim villages.”
“Are there a lot of those?”
Colonel Rodriquez shrugged. “The Igbo people in Nigeria are Catholics. There are also some Coptic Christians coming from Egypt. Here and there. Not heavily populated—and Boko Haram is making sure it stays that way.”
“So . . . trafficking?” Ram leaned back against a table as they worked through the possibility.
Thumbs hooked on his tactical vest, Cell gave a disbelieving scowl. “He’s killing the villagers so his brother won’t have fresh meat to serve up at his harem?”
“Show some respect,” Ram said. “It’s more than that. We just haven’t pieced it together yet.” He shot a glare toward the colonel. “And we can’t do that sitting around.”
Rodriguez raised his hands. “Once they clear you, the medical hold will be lifted.”
“Copy that,” Tox said. “And I’ll want to be on a plane to Syria.”
“I’ll get that in the works,” Rodriguez said.
“I want to go with you” came the soft but firm voice of Natalie Montrose.
Tox spun toward the First Lady, who’d appeared in the doorway with Agent Wallace. “Sorry—”
The First Lady closed the distance between them. She stood nearly tennis shoe to combat boot with him. “I know you want nothing to do with me, and I understand—I’m a liability to you. But this is my husband. I’m not just going to sit around and wait for someone to bring me word about him.” She twisted toward Wallace. “And Walker can look out for me, so your team count isn’t reduced. Now, in my position, I have the influence and power to force this on you, but I’d prefer we work together.”
“Another Arabic speaker would be helpful,” Ram said, referring to Wallace.
Tox glared at his second. Then focused on the First Lady. “Together.” His left cheek twitched. “You pull rank and call that working together?”
Her brown eyes glittered with irritation. “I call it doing what’s necessary to find your commander-in-chief. I’d think that would be important to you as well.”
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