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

by Kendig, Ronie

  “Yes,” Dr. Cathey said. “Assyrian kings used it to their advantage, wielding the mace and saying it was given them by Ashur to rule and subjugate the world.”

  “While others—scientists who are well-known today,” Tzivia said, “speculated the wooden handle is merely laced with some trace of the toxin.”

  “Which doesn’t explain how the wielder didn’t get affected,” Dr. Cathey added.

  Tzivia shrugged.

  “That is where Tzivia and I diverge on theories. I believe it to be supernatural. She prefers to explain things away, no matter how stretched the idea, with science.” He stroked his chin. “The wielder was protected by Ashur from infection.”

  “I really don’t care how the toxin is spreading,” Tox said. “I want the president found—alive—and bin Sultan stopped.”

  Dr. Cathey homed in on Tox. “When you capture Nizar bin Sultan, I would ask that you use these.” He held out the brown paper bag. “There should be a jeweled box, a cradle. I would wager that bin Sultan kept the box because he understands the significance of it being properly stored and would not want himself exposed. This box, called a cradle, bears the mark of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.”

  “Come again?” Ram said—but he didn’t sound confused. He sounded annoyed. Disbelieving.

  “Templar Knights,” Tzivia said softly.

  Dr. Cathey drew out a stamp from the bag. “The mark depicts two knights riding a single mount.” An austere smile twitched his sandy-blond and gray beard. “This seal was used by several Grand Masters over the Templars’ two-hundred-year history. I believe sealing the jeweled box with this wax will contain the toxin.”

  Behind Cathey, Lt. Commander Davis shifted, his expression thoughtful, grave.

  Ram reached for the bag and seal. “I’ve seen more bizarre things in my life.”

  Tox shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”

  “You must do it, Ram,” Tzivia said.

  Hesitating, Tox frowned. “Why him?”

  Again, though silent, Davis twitched his lips to the side. What was that about? Tox stepped forward to talk with the SEAL.

  Ram’s sister blushed in the predawn hour drenched with powerful search lights. “A man I met . . .” She licked her lips. “This will sound crazy.”

  With a laugh, Tox said, “We’re way past crazy. Go on—tell us.”

  She focused on her brother. “Before I came to you, I met this man. He told me that I would know where I had to go with the next phone call.” She nodded to Ram. “You called me, so I came to you. But he also said I must help the warrior.”

  Ram frowned as he turned the bag in his hand.

  Snorting, Tox moved past them to Davis. He lifted his chin. “Can we talk?” Once they were away from the others, Tox turned. “Everything okay?”

  Hands on his belt, Davis looked at the huddled group, then to the village. “JSOC’s getting jittery.” Joint Special Operations Command had a duty to be jittery, to protect their men and locals. “The toxin is spreading too fast, and WHO can’t figure out how to stop it.” Again, that graveness pervaded the SEAL’s green eyes. It held concern. Grief. Warning.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  This time, only his eyes bounced to Tox. “B-52s are en route.”

  The air left Tox’s lungs. “An airstrike?”

  “Toxin’s taken too many lives.” Davis rubbed his beard. “Once we clear out the sick, they’ll drop their payloads.”

  “But we—the president could still be in there!”

  Davis’s nodding morphed into sagged defeat. “Sorry. We have to stop this.”

  “We saw bin Sultan go in, but he didn’t come out.” Tox paced, thinking. His adrenaline jacked. “I need to go back in. There’s gotta be a tunnel or passage or something. If we—”

  “Negative,” Davis said.

  “Just one hour—”

  “Already tried. Command denied more engagements. We head out with the medical teams.” There was no pleasure for Davis in the news he delivered. “Sorry, man.” He made his way to his SEALs.

  Rage and helpless defeat coursed through Tox. Two of his men were down with this toxin. Another had been shot, increasing risk of contamination. Hundreds were dead. Many more were exposed.

  The president . . .

  Tox sidestepped and slammed his fist into the truck door. Hands on the hood, he stood there, heaving breaths.

  “Tox?” Ram called. “You o—”

  “Fine.” Tox had to work this off.

  No, he had to figure out how to finish this. Before the bombers dropped their payload. He would not let this mission be a black mark on his record, even though it was for a politician.

  And I’ve never walked away from a fight.

  16

  “You have the inscription about the seal?” Tzivia asked the professor as they waited under the bright lights.

  “Yes, yes.” He rifled through his satchel. “Ah, here.” He spread a printed page over the hood of a Humvee. “See here?” Sliding as naturally into ancient Akkadian as he did into English, Dr. Cathey mumbled and muttered. “It talks of King Rezin of Aram—that’s Damascus. In Isaiah 7, God tells the Israelites not to worry about Rezin and his fierce anger.”

  “But that’s ancient Israel—Bronze Age, right?” Ram’s shaggy brown hair hung over his eyebrows and dipped into his hazel eyes. “You said the seal was from the Templars. That’s thirteenth century.”

  “Yes, yes! You know your history.” Pleasure soaked Dr. Cathey’s words, and Tzivia smiled. Though her brother chose to make war, he had a way with history and prophecies that had inspired her career in archaeology.

  “So how does the seal tie into the Syrians?” Ram asked.

  “The mace was recorded for hundreds of years in the royal inscriptions, used as a symbol of the Syrians’ might and power and authority. The transcription states the mace was found after the fall of Assyria in 605 BC. Hundreds of years later, it was encased in a jeweled box by Thefarie of Tveria.”

  “Who?”

  “The knight.” With a fervent nod, Dr. Cathey grew animated. “Much of Thefarie’s journal is missing, but this inscription was discovered in a crypt where the Aleppo Codex was believed to be hidden for—”

  “The what?” Maangi asked.

  Waving his hand, Dr. Cathey shook his head. “Forget I mentioned that. This inscription by Thefarie warns that the mace, once released, can only be contained by the warrior’s seal.”

  “Why only by the warrior’s seal? I mean”—Ram waved his hand in a circle—“assuming you buy into the supernatural. Why can only the warrior’s seal end it?”

  “Dieu sait,” Tzivia mumbled.

  Dr. Cathey’s eyes widened. “What did—where did you hear that?”

  His reaction surprised her. Tzivia lifted her shoulders slightly. “The man who called me, the Stranger—he said it.”

  “Said what, exactly?” Dr. Cathey’s voice took on an aura of wonder and amazement.

  “Something about God knowing who sinned and that a calamity—”

  “‘ . . . will occur to those who have condemned us to death.’” Dr. Cathey scratched his beard, mouth agape.

  “What?” Ram and Tzivia asked at the same time.

  Confusion and concern creased Dr. Cathey’s forehead. “It . . .” He blinked and shook his head. “Templar Grand Master Jacques de Molay spoke those words as he was burned at the stake. The words were meant as a warning to King Philip and Pope Clement for what they’d done to the Templars. De Molay prophesied that both the king and the pope would soon stand before God with de Molay—and they did. The pope died a month later and the king before the end of the year, though both were in relatively good health.” Again, his attention transferred from history to Tzivia. “This stranger . . . he was the same one from the café?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Can we refocus on this seal?” Ram asked. “I mean—you’re sure this translates as a wax seal? Tha
t we can stop this thing with that wax and seal?”

  “Well, there could be many meanings,” Dr. Cathey admitted, still visibly shaken. “But the most plausible, considering the cradle, the mace . . .” He nodded heartily. “Yes, yes! I am confident the wax seal is the key!”

  Commander Davis motioned everyone toward waiting armored vehicles. “Pack up and get ready to move out.”

  Tzivia frowned. “Move out?” She glanced at her brother, alarm digging into her heart. “But you have to seal the mace!”

  “Hang on.” Ram turned, stretching his neck as he looked around. He turned a little more hurriedly. “Maangi. Where’s Tox?”

  “Haven’t seen him since he got into it with the SEAL commander.”

  Ram scowled. “When was that?”

  Maangi’s terse expression shifted. Slid away. “’Bout an hour ago.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Beats me,” Maangi said.

  Tzivia hurried to stay with her brother’s quick pace as he approached the SEALs.

  “Commander, a word?”

  The tall blond SEAL turned. Eyed them.

  “You exchanged words with the sarge,” Ram said.

  Davis considered them again. “I did.”

  “May I ask what about?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  “I would, but he seems to be missing.”

  Davis spun, the glare of lights from the village splashing across his face. His curse seared the air. “He wanted to go back to the building and search for a tunnel and the president.”

  Ram grabbed binoculars and scanned the area.

  “You see him?” Tzivia couldn’t imagine anyone entering that poison-infested village on purpose.

  Ram didn’t answer, and that was answer enough.

  Her stomach squirmed, imagining what Tox would go through if he came in contact with the poison. She’d overheard the medics saying time from onset of symptoms to fatality was now only a few hours.

  She noted more and more soldiers and SEALs searching for sign of Tox. Even she, hand to her throat, searched those walking between her position and the village—and there weren’t many.

  A shadow shifted behind one of the medical workers. Black gave way to the briefest glimpse of orange.

  “There!” she said, her hand thrusting out.

  “Where?”

  “I . . .” Jerking, she wished she could take back the exultant cry when she saw nothing but darkness again. “I thought I saw something by the—”

  “Got him,” Maangi said. “Entering the building now.”

  Ram threw down the binoculars. “Suit up.”

  “No,” Commander Davis said. “Nobody’s going in there.”

  “You can’t be serious—”

  “Airstrike in ten mikes.”

  A chill darted through Tzivia’s veins. The team sergeant was on his own.

  ****

  Standing in a hazmat suit, knowing any confrontation with bin Sultan and his goons could decimate his chance of coming out alive, Tox felt more alone than he ever had before. Yet that solitude afforded him the presence of mind to step onto this dangerous path. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing with so many lives, including the president’s, hanging in the balance. The mace had to be stopped.

  Reminding himself to remain calm, the sound of his breathing loud in the self-contained suit, Tox followed the beam of his SureFire into the darkness of the two-story structure. Night vision goggles would’ve been preferable, but the hassle with the suit made it impractical. He moved from room to room, stomping in the vain hope of revealing a hidden trap door. Even though he glided farther into the building, the industrial lights set up by the medics bled through the curtains and every crack and crevice, creating a creepy constellation.

  Logic guided him to the right, thinking that since he had seen bodies in the rooms to the left, bin Sultan wouldn’t stay near the stench or risk exposing himself. A man trying to rout power wouldn’t put his life in danger.

  Might be loose logic. But it was all he had right now. That and a hefty dose of desperation. He set the timer on his watch, which he’d strapped to the outside of his suit. Six minutes.

  Stomp. Stomp. He itched to wipe the sweat from his brow. To stop the trickle racing down his spine.

  He sniffed. Stilled. What was that metallic taste?

  He glanced down. Red and slick, blood hit his face mask. From inside!

  Crap. Nosebleed was the first sign of the toxin. He blew a breath through his mouth.

  Focus, Russell. Time was short. Find Montrose. Get out. Die later.

  He moved forward, his mind thrumming. Heat roiling through the hazmat suit. He sniffled again, tasting the bitter tinge of blood gliding down his sinus passage.

  Ignore it.

  Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. He turned, his steps quick, time racing. Stomp-stomp. Stomp. One more right turn, and he’d only have two rooms remaining.

  Stomp. Stomp.

  He hadn’t been much of the praying kind—more a man of action—but if it helped, he’d do it. Stomp. Stomp. “God . . . sure could use some help . . .” Stomp.

  Thud!

  The sound crashed against his pulse. Tox froze. Lowered his gaze to the ground. He swept his boot across the surface. Dirt plumed away, revealing a trap door. His boot thumped against a steel handle. “Bingo.”

  On his knees, he dug his gloved fingers into the dirt, tracing the outline until he found a catch. Tox lifted the door, angling away from the line of sight someone below could take on him. No need to get his head shot off so close to the goal. He swung his M4A1 in front of him and cradled it with both hands, the butt nestled against his shoulder. He listened for several long seconds, waiting for a shot to ring out. For pain to tear through him.

  Expelling a breath, he readied himself. Aimed the beam into the tunnel below. Using the ladder would just make him a climbing duck. Straightening, he gauged the distance to the ground. Four, maybe four-and-a-half-feet.

  “Nothin’ to lose.” He stepped over the gaping hole. Dropped. Landed with a jarring thud against the hard-packed dirt. Cooler, damp air captured him. He went to a knee, sweeping his weapon and beam around.

  A long, dark tunnel rushed away from him, banking to the right.

  He smirked. Right. Just as he’d guessed. A glance at his timepiece told him he had five minutes. He wouldn’t hear the bombers unleashing their payload. He hustled down the tunnel.

  Tox cleared the corner and continued down, eyeballing for hidden doors or— Thwat!

  He pitched forward. Fire seared the back of his left shoulder. Though he stumbled, he swung around and fired. The shooter crumpled.

  Steadying himself, Tox shook off the adrenaline. “All doubt has left the building,” he muttered, knowing the shot to the shoulder left him fully exposed to the toxin.

  He wanted to check the wound. Stop and breathe. No time.

  He pushed on. Encountering guards meant he was on the right track. Another right turn. Dead-end at a steel door. He plucked the gray clay brick from his pack and pressed it against the steel, then slid the charges in. Thirty wasted seconds later, he jogged back around the corner and pressed the button.

  Boom!

  Dirt and rocks rained down.

  Tox covered his head, expecting the ceiling to collapse. When it didn’t, he went to a knee and angled his M4A1 around the corner.

  Gunfire peppered the dust-clouded passage.

  Temptation to fire into the darkness choked him, but he wouldn’t put it past bin Sultan to use Montrose as a shield.

  “You idiot” came a seething voice. “You’ve killed us!”

  “That was your doing, bin Sultan,” Tox said, guessing at the disembodied voice. “You brought the mace and toxin.”

  “We were safe down here.”

  “Safe? From the toxin? How?”

  “He who holds it is immune.” There was a grin in bin Sultan’s voice.

  Tox snorted. “Listen, in about five minute
s nothing will be left of this place. Bombers are going to level it.” He had to keep the guy talking in order to gauge his position. “Didn’t quite think this one through, did you?”

  The man fell silent, but shuffling feet and riffling fabric warned Tox they were moving around.

  “Let us out!” bin Sultan demanded.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you want your president alive.”

  “Do I?” Tox slid along the wall, using the shadows and darkness to conceal his movements. “He’s a politician. They’re barely worth the suits they wear.”

  “Yet you come for him.”

  Tox wished for the thousandth time for his thermals. He couldn’t see how many hostiles waited for him.

  Two soft thuds sounded from within.

  Tox had to see into that den of darkness. The stiffness of the air told him there probably wasn’t much space beyond the blown door. Close-quarters combat.

  Again, two soft thuds.

  Recognition lit through him. Montrose—he was telling Tox how many unfriendlies.

  Tox let his M4 dangle and unholstered his Glock 22.

  Shadows shifted. Tox squinted, hating the silence that dropped over the tunnel. More dirt and rocks dribbled from the ceiling. Medical trucks leaving.

  “We’ve got less than three minutes, bin Sultan. Then you won’t have to worry about disease or me ever again.”

  Quick crunching reached Tox. He firmed his grip on the handgun.

  A form ripped itself from the shadows. Not Montrose. A man in a Syrian uniform.

  Backing up, Tox fired. Once. Twice. Three times.

  The man tripped, his feet tangling as he went down. But Tox was already sighting into the darkness.

  A gunshot rang out. The bullet pierced Tox’s thigh. Tensed against the eruption of pain, he fired back at the spot he’d seen the tiny explosion. Fired again.

  Silence screamed. Warmth slid down his leg, his muscle tightening. “Bin Sultan?”

  Only a muffled shout, straining . . . as if behind a gag. Tox eased forward. Switched on his shoulder lamp. Pied into the room, waiting for the next bullet to rip through his skull. A man lay sprawled exactly where Tox had anticipated.