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

by Kendig, Ronie

  “Don’t,” Tox said. “Don’t work me. I know how to do my job. Besides, I’d be in a noose if anything happened to you.”

  “It’s the same weapon.”

  Tox turned to the petite Tzivia. He glanced at the papers she held side by side. Photos. Grateful for the distraction, he shifted closer. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” She traced a finger along the length of the handle on one image, then the other. “Well, not one hundred percent. The video makes the image grainy, but the head and flanges are nearly identical. I can’t see the inscriptions because of his hand, but the chances of it being a different mace when ours is missing? Pretty unlikely.”

  Tox bobbed his head.

  “Just be glad you don’t believe what Dr. Cathey believes about what that mace represents.”

  “What?”

  Her dark eyes hit his. “Death.”

  11

  “‘ . . . devastated villages . . . burned with fire.’” Lying on the cement floor of the Command room, Tzivia pored over the printed copies of the ancient text. She scanned another inscription. “‘ . . . power of his weapon . . . rained fire and destruction.’”

  She pushed into a sitting position, frustrated with the perpetuating violence of the Syrian kings, and glanced at her watch. Knowing the ceremony exhibit hung in limbo because Dr. Cathey and the mace were both missing embedded a deep fear in her that more would go terribly wrong. That the violence of antiquity had come to revisit its devastation on the modern world.

  “Yeah,” she muttered to her phone, which was on speaker, “what worries me is this.” She tapped her pen against her lip, thinking that things hadn’t changed in two thousand years. “Seems this Nizar guy wants the same thing Syrian rulers have wanted since the dawn of time: ‘eternal law of obedience of the weak to the strong.’”

  “You’re being a little harsh,” Noel said.

  “Am I?”

  “What do those soldiers say about the prince, about his goal?”

  “They’re guessing as much as I am. But listen to this.” She flipped to the next article. “Shalmaneser III is said to have reduced the entire world to continual anguish in his quest for supremacy via war. That sounds exactly like Nizar bin Sultan, seizing power from Badi al Zaman, putting these villages in continual anguish.”

  And Ram. What if he was poisoned too? What if that handsome sergeant of his was affected the way the enemies of Syria had been?

  “Tzivia, those are neither here nor there. We need to find Dr. C and the mace.”

  “I think these men can help.”

  “Of all people, I never expected you to go to the military.”

  “He’s my brother.” She turned to another page. “Besides, to find Dr. C and the mace, I have to figure out why he was buying rare wax and a Templar seal.” She puffed out a breath, blowing her bangs from her forehead. She lifted the inscriptions again. “So—wax. Why did he want that rare wax? There has to be something in one of these that . . .” What? She had no clue.

  “There’s not a lot written about the mace.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you’re not with me, Noel . . .”

  “I am not against you. I’m just saying—”

  “Stop saying and help me find what I’m missing.” She laid out the inscriptions and started reading.

  Inscription Thirty. “‘ . . . inscribed mighty deeds of Ashur . . . on iron . . .’” She sighed, her fingers sliding quickly over the text and transcriptions. “‘ . . . Celestial Light—Scepter of Celestial Light.’”

  Her iPad rang, the tone indicating a FaceTime call. Dr. Cathey’s image appeared beside his name. Tzivia gasped. “That’s him!”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Cathey. Gotta go.” She hung up on Noel and swiped her finger over the iPad, accepting the FaceTime call. “Dr. Cathey!”

  He looked disheveled and unkempt. He squinted. “Are you alone?”

  Tzivia glanced around, verifying that the others, who’d gone into a meeting, hadn’t returned. “Yes. Where are you?”

  He laughed. “At the hotel, where I thought you were. Can you hurry? I must show you something. Fast.” He was distressed.

  “I’m in Niger right now. I—”

  “Why are you there? It’s foolish to be there.”

  Surprise choked her earlier fear, replacing it with anger.

  “I told you I needed you in Syria!”

  “I went there,” she growled. “I went there and you weren’t to be found. I tracked you to Paris but didn’t find you there either.” Her mind immediately clung to the Stranger. To his duel with Mr. Slick.

  He muttered something, looking around, then clutched his head, shaking it. “This isn’t good. Oh, what are you doing there, Tzivia? How could you risk everything?”

  “Me?” she shrieked. “You’re the one who abandoned the exhibit. The prince is angry, and his assistant—besides being a complete witch—pretty much threw me out because you hadn’t shown up.” She wagged the papers at the screen. “And I’ve been poring over these for hours to—”

  “Those copies—they’re inscriptions.” A deep scowl dug into his face, tugging at his beard. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find out why you were looking for rare wax.”

  “The answer isn’t there.” He tugged some folded pages from his suit jacket. Waved them. “I found the key in these.”

  “What are they?”

  “I’ll send you snapshots on my phone. Just a minute.” For the next few seconds, he snapped pictures—click—then sent them to her—whoosh.

  Click. Whoosh.

  Click. Whoosh.

  Within seconds of the first whoosh, Tzivia had it. She opened it on her iPhone. “These’re Latin!”

  “Of course. Thirteenth century.” His image jostled as he went down on his knees and turned his phone so the camera captured his hand hovering over the pages. He pointed to one. “This one. Here.” His finger traced the inscription. “‘ . . . in the day of terrifying splendor, the weak tried in vain to stop me, but my god Ashur rained down fire and destruction. Against the Celestial Scepter stood one victor: the Warrior’s Seal.’” The camera again blurred as he flipped it and sat back against the wall, his hazel eyes wild and large. “It’s the only way to stop him.”

  “Stop who? How?”

  “The prince!” His expression was ardent. “The mace must be returned to its cradle and sealed.” Again he angled the phone, this time to a paper bag. “With this!”

  Tzivia stretched out on her belly again, staring at the bag. “Is that the wax and seal you bought in Paris?”

  “Yes! We seal the cradle and stamp it.”

  “And that stops the toxin?”

  He stabbed the papers on the floor. “That’s what it says.”

  “Sounds too easy.”

  Dr. Cathey breathed a laugh. “That’s because it is—the hard part is getting the mace back,” he said quietly, his focus shifting back to the scatter of papers.

  Crack! Thud!

  At the explosion of noise, Tzivia jerked.

  His eyes bulged. “They’ve found me. I must go.”

  “No, Dr. Cathey—wait!”

  The door behind him flung off its hinges. The connection died.

  Hands flying to her mouth, Tzivia shoved back onto her rear end. She collided with something and whipped around. Shot to her feet in a fighting stance.

  Tox stood there, eyebrows winging up into his hairline. Hands up. “Easy,” he said. “You okay?”

  She deflated, swallowing hard. “I have to get back to Syria. Dr. Cathey—they found him—they’ll kill him—the mace isn’t—”

  Tox gripped her shoulders. “Tzivia.” His voice was strong, firm. Reassuring.

  She looked up into his blue eyes.

  “Slow down.” He touched the side of her face, and she felt the electricity that zapped through them both. “Now—”

  “What’s going on?” Ram’s voice stabbed the tension.

  Tzivia ste
pped out of Tox’s grasp and turned to her brother. “I have to return to Syria. Dr. Cathey is in trouble.”

  “I thought we already knew that,” Ram said, slowly coming closer and sliding a look of warning to his team leader.

  “Before, he was missing because he was looking for something. Or hiding. I don’t know.” Tzivia brushed her bangs from her face. “But I was just FaceTiming with him, and men broke in.”

  “If you go back there, they could be waiting.”

  “I’m not going to sit here and wait.” This was why they’d taken different paths years ago. Ram wanted the safe option for her—sending her to live with their maternal grandmother. She’d hated it. Hated Brooklyn. “You said the mace is back in Syria. I need to go there.”

  “Wait with us,” Tox said. “We’re headed there once the team is cleared.”

  “The guys are gearing up now,” Ram added with a nod.

  “When you’re cleared,” Tzivia repeated. “When is that?”

  Tox looked down. “We’re not sure. Once medical gives the okay. But we’ll be wheels up as soon as that comes through.”

  She nodded. Glanced at the transcriptions in her hands. Remembered the door flying off the hinges.

  “Tox, Khalon,” someone shouted from the front door. “Medical wants you now.”

  Tox hesitated, somehow reading her wariness. “We’ll go to Syria together. It’ll be safer.” He strode out, leaving her with Ram.

  “I know you’re worried about him, but don’t bypass us, Tzi.”

  He’d been able to read her since they were kids. “They blew up his door. Stormed in.” She shook her head.

  “We’ll find him.”

  Hesitation held her fast.

  He kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

  She lifted her papers one at time, stacking them, listening as her brother left the room. Waiting for the door to thud shut. Once that happened, Tzivia scooped the files into her arms and lifted them onto a table. A few taps against the surface sorted them into a manageable pile. She stuffed them in her satchel. She had to leave now.

  Noise from behind made her turn. “Did you—”

  A man strode toward her, grim determination scratched into his scruffy face. His stance, his expression, the squared shoulders—he was ready for a fight.

  “Can I help you?” She moved her right foot back, aiming her shoulder at him.

  As he silently closed the distance, another shape appeared near the door. She dared not look away from the first man—and good thing. He lifted a weapon from a holster at the small of his back. Held it to the side. The sleeve of his jacket hitched up on his arm and revealed a tattoo on the inside of his wrist—an arrow flying through fire.

  “Time to take a ride,” he said, lifting the weapon.

  Tzivia stared at the gun. “Where?” Using her faked fear to reposition herself, she raised her hands and readjusted her stance.

  “Let’s go.” The last few feet between them vanished.

  Tzivia grabbed the muzzle of the gun and jerked him forward. Caught him off balance. She stepped in with her right foot. Rammed her elbow into his face. He gave a gargled cry as blood spurted from his nose.

  From the side, a fist flew at her.

  Protecting her head and neck, she blocked it. Wrapped her arm over his, pinning it. Nailed him with a palm-heel strike, then followed through quickly with an elbow strike. Grabbed the back of his neck and jerked him forward. She drove her knee into his groin twice, then shoved him backward. He fell.

  She turned—

  A rifle butt caught her in the temple. The world blinked out.

  ****

  Pain wracked Tzivia’s body as a steady drone drilled through her brain. She pried her eyelids apart. Light stabbed her corneas. She grimaced, but not before noting a black shape hovering over her.

  Two smacks to her face forced her into the conscious world. Tzivia groaned and met beady eyes. Her thoughts sharpened, remembering the attack at the base. Being knocked out. And this man . . . he . . . he was the one who’d come for her at the café in Paris.

  “Where would a little girl like you learn to fight like that?” His amusement bled across his face. She wanted to make more than that bleed. He jabbed a thumb at someone lurking over his shoulder. “Malachi says Krav Maga.”

  “Where am I?” She twisted to search her surroundings, only then realizing she was on a plane. Something pinched her wrists—plastic cuffs. Her feet, too, were secured.

  “Ah, yes. We had to make sure you couldn’t make minced meat of the rest of us.” Behind those dark eyes lurked an annoying smile. He was way too pleased with himself. “This is what happens when you meddle in things you do not understand.”

  “Monsieur Beauchene.”

  The man turned, still squatting over her. From this angle, she could see his tanned face. Meticulously trimmed hair. The suit seemed expensive as well.

  And did he seriously think securing her hands and feet would stop her from retaliating if she knew Krav Maga? All she had to do— “Tzivia!”

  Her hissed name drew her attention over her shoulder. Dr. Cathey, hands tied and face bloodied, sat in a chair. He shook his head frantically, apparently reading in her body language that she was willing to use her training.

  “We’ll be landing outside Damascus in twenty minutes.”

  “Merci, Malachi.” Beauchene twisted back to Tzivia, slanting a look at Dr. C. He nodded. “You will make lovely bait. Now we will find out what you are really made of when you don’t have your guardian watching your back.”

  Guardian? What was he talking about? Ram?

  “Ah. You don’t know then, do you?” He grunted, pursing his lips. “Having him back in action makes the game much more interesting. What will he do once he discovers I have you and the mace?”

  12

  “Getting shot at is one thing—and I can deal with that,” Cell groused, “but getting a shot?” He shook his head. “Hate needles.”

  “Then don’t get immunized and catch the toxin. Do us all a favor,” Maangi said.

  “Ha ha. Very funny, Mangy. They don’t even know if this will work.”

  “Just get it done.” Tox plucked the cotton ball from the crook of his inner arm and tossed it in the red medical waste receptacle. “We need to be wheels up within the hour.”

  Ram rolled his sleeve back down and trailed Tox into the balmy night air of Niger. “What about the agent and the First Lady?”

  “What about them?”

  “You letting them come?”

  “Don’t have a choice.”

  “But you don’t want them to.”

  “They don’t have training. They’re dead weight. And it could get ugly. Besides, what about your sister?”

  “What about her? Besides the fact you were ogling her.”

  They stepped into the Command building. Tox saw the door to the conference room open and the light off. He glanced at Ram, who trotted ahead.

  Ram spun back. “She’s not here.”

  Tox pivoted to the soldier on duty. “Where’d she go?”

  “Tox!”

  He turned, watching as the colonel and soldiers jogged toward them.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Ram muttered. “I’ll kill him if he sent Tzi out there alone.”

  “Command cleared everyone except Palchinski. His blood tests came back positive for the toxin.” Rodriguez stopped in front of Tox, his hands on his belt as he gave Ram a long look. “Khalon, Command also sent word that it seems your sister has been taken.”

  Ram shifted forward, eyes blazing. “What do you mean?”

  Rodriguez shook his head. “She was grabbed by two locals we were training. Their transponder blinked out as soon as they crossed into Syrian airspace.”

  “Son of a—bin Sultan’s got them both now. The professor and her,” Ram said.

  “Word came from the Pentagon: they have reason to believe the president’s there, too,” Colonel Rodriguez said. “They want y
our team en route to Syria.”

  What did bin Sultan hope to accomplish by taking the president all the way to Syria except to infect him with the toxin? Which he could’ve done in Nigeria. “How are they funding all this?” Tox asked. “Why? It m—”

  “Bin Sultan’s rebellion and uprising appear to be heavily funded by a Frenchman name Beauchene. Sources on the ground in Damascus reported one Corbin Beauchene landed about thirty minutes ago.”

  “Should I know that name?” Tox folded his arms.

  “He is one of the most influential men in France. Essentially made of money.”

  “What does he want with the president and this mace? Why would he help a terrorist?”

  “Intel points to Nizar bin Sultan trying to restructure power, seize his elder brother’s right to the throne, as it were.” Rod nodded. “I mean, it’s insane—a lot of work and a lot of lives are being lost to seize that power.”

  “Insane is right,” Tox said. “And believing the mace has powers?”

  “The mace is more symbolic than it is powerful,” Ram said.

  Tox shook his head, hating what men did for power. Princes and politicians. He’d had enough of both.

  “And this Beauchene took Tzivia?” Ram asked, his tone cold, calculating.

  “Eyes on the ground saw her being offloaded from his plane.” Colonel Rodriguez nodded again. “Look, I don’t have all the answers. I just know the rich guy has them, the illegitimate prince plans to kill them, and you are ordered to stop this at all costs.”

  “Who’s the source on this intel?” Answers had come too quickly and too easily. “No, no. I don’t like this. ”

  Rodriguez’s gaze raked over Tox. “You disobeying a direct order, Sergeant?”

  “I’m gathering intelligence on a situation that could prove lethal to me and my team.” Tox knew how to play the diplomacy game. And how not to play it.

  “We wouldn’t need you if the potential for danger didn’t exist.” Rodriguez glowered. “Now gear up and get on that tarmac.”

  “Permission to leave the civvies here, sir?”

  “Denied.”

  “Their safety, as you clearly stated, is in question, and I’m not convinced I can trust them out there.” Things had lined up too swiftly. Too perfectly.