End in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 3)

by Gary Williams

  CHAPTER 1

  Four years ago. Passau, Germany; Near the Austrian border.

  Archaeologist Carr Nash walked down a rock path, passed under a large trellis, and emerged in a well-manicured courtyard where he was escorted to a chair at a small table. Three heavily armed men toting Uzis stood in a triangular formation some distance away from the table. Nash sat quietly soaking up the sunlight, admiring the beauty of the gardens lining the perimeter around him. The air was fresh, carrying the scent of lilacs. In the distance, the Veste Oberhaus, a fortress built in 1219, sat atop a mountain crest dominating the old city and painting a picturesque backdrop to the back yard of the chateau.

  A shapely blonde woman in her twenties arrived and placed a glass on the table before him. She left without a word. The drink appeared to be brandy. He took a sip. He had been mistaken; it was Cognac, and a rather tasty one at that.

  Several minutes passed, and a man appeared dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana pinstripe suit. The man’s attire left something to be desired. Nash had expected more class: a Caraceni from Milan perhaps.

  The man sat at the table across from Nash. He was younger than Nash had assumed he would be; no more than late thirties or early forties. He had slick, dark hair and a mustache.

  “Welcome, Herr Nash,” the man said with a respectful nod. “My name is Meinhardt Schuster. I understand you wish to inquire about a particular relic from the Ming Dynasty which I might have in my possession.”

  Nash smiled. “Beautiful place you have here, Herr Schuster. If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to take a moment to sip my Cognac and enjoy the fresh air before we begin our business.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Schuster chuckled. His expression hardened. “Just know this: a few minutes ago, my men found your two snipers in the hills. Their throats were cut from ear to ear. Whatever your real purpose for being here, your fate has been sealed.” His eyes turned steely. “You are a dead man, so enjoy your Cognac then make peace with your god.”

  Nash breathed faster, and his eyes clouded with fear. “I…I didn’t mean my men to be a show of aggression. They were simply for protection. I swear to you, they were only here in case trouble arose.”

  “Well, Herr Nash. I’d say you are very much in trouble now.” Schuster cocked his head a bit. “So tell me, what is it you were really after?”

  Nash smiled awkwardly and spoke with a nervous edge. “I’ll come clean. I’m not here about the Ming vase. Rumor has it that, six months ago, a scroll was discovered in one of the tall T-shaped columns at Gobekli Tepe in Turkey by a German archaeological team. While it was being transported back to the University of Passau, someone murdered the carrier and took the scroll. German officials would not admit to the discovery. Even the lead archaeologist, Dr. Hans Newmann, denied a scroll had been found, much less stolen.”

  Schuster appeared to listen with interest but remained silent.

  Nash knew he had him hooked. “The scroll is thought to be the Scroll of Edict—directions for entering Eden, if you believe in such things.”

  Schuster leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers upon his chest. “Am I to assume you think I had something to do with the theft of this Scroll of Edict?”

  “Look,” Nash spoke with more confidence now, “how you may have come across such a relic is none of my business, but as I said, I’m highly interested in obtaining said scroll. I am willing to pay a high price for it.”

  Schuster appeared intrigued. “Exactly how high?”

  “Well, for you, two.”

  Schuster sat up. “Two? Two million?”

  “No,” Nash leaned forward, took a sip of Cognac, and leaned back, locking his fingers behind his head, giving the signal. “Two dollars.”

  Pfft.

  Pfft.

  Pfft.

  The three armed men were each struck in the head by a bullet and crumpled to the ground. Schuster’s eyes filled with alarm, and he started to rise from the table.

  “Sit down,” Nash ordered.

  Schuster froze, taking stock of the three bodies lying around them. The head of each man had been thoroughly destroyed. Slowly, the German eased back down into his seat. His expression morphed into mortification. He peered toward the hills, obviously trying to spot the sniper.

  Nash took another sip of Cognac. “Schuster, one thing you should know: when you’re dealing with cult members, they’re willing to sacrifice themselves for the cause. The two snipers you found in the hills were decoys. My other men waited until you flushed them out, then jumped your men and executed them. Now, shall we get down to the real business? I want the Scroll of Edict, and I know you have it. If you deny it, I’m going to give the same signal, and my men are going to blow your skull off. So, shall we dispense with the pleasantries and denials and go inside and get it?”

  Wide-eyed, Schuster slowly rose and led Nash up the rock walkway. Nash paused to pick up an Uzi from one of the dead men. Inside the chateau, Jed Rassle was standing behind the blonde woman, clutching her tightly, holding a large knife to her throat. Her hair was disheveled, and her eyes radiated fear. She was breathing in quick bursts, struggling to intake air through Rassle’s grasp.

  “Please, please don’t hurt her,” Schuster pleaded.

  “The scroll, Herr Schuster. Now,” Nash reinforced sternly.

  Schuster led Nash into a large living area. He paused, but only for a moment, then walked over to a vintage grandfather clock. He swung open the door and pulled out an animal-skin tube. “Here. No one else has to get hurt,” he said.

  Nash took the tube, admired the material, and popped open the end cap. He gently removed the parchment and opened the scroll enough to see the ancient text. Then he returned and resealed it.

  Rassle moved into the room, still holding the girl.

  “You’re right, Herr Schuster. No one else has to get hurt,” Nash said with a smile. His gaze hardened, “but your behavior sealed your fate, so that’s the way I want it.”

  Rassle drew the blade across the blonde woman’s neck, slashing her carotid artery. With a spasm, she fell to the ground, and soon went still. Blood poured from the wound.

  “No!” Schuster screamed, running toward the woman as Rassle stepped aside.

  Nash leveled the Uzi at Schuster’s back and opened fire, sending a barrage of bullets into the man’s body. He fell in a bloody heap beside the now strawberry blonde.

  Nash smiled.

  Rassle wiped the blade of the knife on the upholstery of a nearby couch.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tiffany Bar paced back and forth in her fifth-floor office at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. She paused to look out over the well-lit parking lot below. It was nearly midnight, and she was worried sick. Hours had passed since she had heard from Samuel Tolen. On the last call, she had directed him to the northern end of Green Cove Springs to reconnoiter a camp of suspected cult members. Now, not only could she not reach Tolen, but Dr. Curt Lohan wasn’t answering his phone. The last time she spoke to him, she had observed the heat signature of something gargantuan crossing the river. Afterward, there was the bizarre news report of the St. Johns River swelling to epic proportions for seemingly no reason.

  Over the last few days, Tolen had Bar translating Egyptian hieroglyphs, searching for a doomsday cult, and trying to find a secret code in a pamphlet published by Ed Leedskalnin—a code that might or might not exist.

  What in the hell is going on down there? Where are you Tolen?

  She picked up the small jar on her desk that contained threads from the Sudarium of Oviedo. Archbishop Juan Gustavo of the Cathedral of San Salvador had allowed her to keep the threads after her ordeal there. It was his way of saying thank you for her role in returning the Sudarium prior to the start of the Feast of the Cross last September. Now, every time she looked at it, it reminded her of the successful mission she and Tolen had embarked upon, which also happened to be her first experience in the field. Yet the threads also reminded her of the horrid
experience when she had faced Nicklaus Kappel in the Spanish mausoleum. At the time, she had been filled with rage after learning Kappel killed her friend and Tolen’s pilot, Reba Zee. Hand-to-hand battle had ensued after he had held her at gunpoint. It had ended with Kappel on top of her before she finally reached the gun they were both struggling for, and she had shot him in the chest. Not only had the encounter been her first kill as an agent, it was the first time she had fired at another human being. Taking another human life had been a hard pill to swallow. The incident had spawned dozens of nightmares, often with Kappel glaring at her, clutching at exaggerated bullet holes in his chest from which blood spurted out. Each time, he vowed to get even with her.

  A ping from her computer startled her back to reality. She dashed back to her desk expecting to find a new email; hopefully a message from Tolen.

  There were no new emails.

  That was odd; what caused the ping? Then Bar noticed a new application had opened. At first she didn’t recognize it.

  “Oh my God.” She quickly viewed the information. The beacon on Samuel Tolen’s watch had been activated. She clicked on the hyperlink and brought up the coordinates. A map overlaid the pulsing red blip.

  Tolen appeared in the middle of the St. Johns River next to the Alvin G. Shands Bridge at Green Cove Springs, Florida. A secondary row of data appeared. Bar cocked her head. This additional information only displayed if the beacon originated from somewhere other than ground level. She studied the data curiously.

  She was aghast when she realized the blip from Samuel Tolen’s beacon was originating forty-two feet below the surface.

  CHAPTER 3

  Fortunately for Samuel Tolen, Josette Laval had aimed for the heart. Wearing his Kevlar vest had saved him. Yet, when he had plummeted off the Shands Bridge in the dark, he was battered and weak, not to mention handcuffed behind his back. The fall was horrific. Tolen was unable to use his hands or position his body to enter the river in a dive. Instead, he smacked the surface hard, barely able to grab a lungful of air just before he submerged. The cut on his head stung the instant he entered the saltwater. Now the pain from the impact of the bullets gripped his chest.

  Tolen could not comprehend where he was or what had just happened, only that his body ached from head to toe. When his survival instinct to resurface kicked in, he was already sinking like a rock. He knew he had to get his hands out in front of him. As he sunk, he balled up and awkwardly stretched his arms behind him as low as he could, battling through the pain. When that didn’t work, he attempted to draw his feet up and thread them through his handcuffed arms. This caused his body to spin, and he quickly became disoriented. He opened his eyes, but it made no difference. Darkness consumed him as he sank. Valiantly, he tried again to get his legs through his restrained arms, but he was unsuccessful. By the time he bumped down on the sandy riverbed, he was quickly running out of air.

  Reaching the river bottom gave him the stability and leverage he needed. Lying on his back, he was finally able to bring his handcuffed arms underneath. With grueling determination, he extended his arms to their absolute limit, feeling as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. Compacting his legs against his body, he finally squeezed his legs through, raking skin off his wrists with his shoes in the process. His right leg had a peculiar tingle, but he had no time to consider the implications. Now, with his handcuffed arms in front of him, he would be able to kick off the riverbed and swim toward the surface. Before he pushed off, however, he noticed a slow, pulsing green light on the right handcuff.

  Josette Laval was tracking him, and if he surfaced, she would find him. In addition, with every passing moment, his strength was withering.

  Tolen was an adept swimmer and could hold his breath for several minutes under normal circumstances, but his body was under duress. His lungs were already yearning for air.

  A thought occurred to him. He used his right hand to reach his watch and click on the dial light. It glowed white. He pressed a button on the side, and the display showed his GPS coordinates. He remembered that when Bar had recited Curt Lohan’s history, she had mentioned Lohan’s recent exploration of a sunken World War II vessel near this bridge. Because of his audible recall, Tolen remembered the exact coordinates.

  The vessel was close.

  Wasting no time, with his lungs burning, Tolen walked the dark riverbed in the direction of the coordinates, hoping the terrain remained clear. One stumble and he might run out of breath. He moved as fast as he could in the dark, occasionally checking his watch as the coordinates updated, alternatively aiming the watch face ahead so that the white glow would provide a modicum of light. His right leg was losing feeling, but he pressed onward, nearly walking headfirst into a massive steel wall.

  He had found the ship.

  With a grimace, Tolen kicked off the riverbed floor, swimming upward along the side of the vessel. His chest was screaming for air. He reached the deck and found the exposed doorway Lohan had identified in his report. He quickly swam inside, beginning to feel lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. He followed a stairwell, using the rail to pull himself up. His world grew fuzzy, and the agonizing need for air was about to overpower him. Tolen reached the top of the stairwell and swam forward into an enclosure.

  He felt as if his chest was about to rupture.

  With his vision waning, Tolen rose as quickly as he could. His head mercifully poked through the water into a pocket of air. He gasped, sputtered, and choked, inhaling air in long, drawn-out breaths that only reminded him of the chest contusions from Laval’s shots into his Kevlar vest.

  He struggled to remain upright with his hands in the cuffs. Thankfully, Tolen found a foothold in the wall where the steel had corroded away. Standing awkwardly on the jagged opening, he was able to keep his head above water.

  Now a new discomfort arose. His right leg was on fire. Panting, he leaned against the wall to keep his balance. Tolen reached down and felt his thigh. At the very least, he had sustained a fracture. Any thoughts of eventually grabbing a lungful of air and trying to make his way out and up to the surface faded. Even if he could somehow avoid Laval, he would never be able to make the swim.

  Tolen scrutinized the area using the white glow of his watch. The enclosure was limited. The air pocket was two feet tall in a room that measured roughly six-by-six feet. He quickly did the calculation and realized, at best, he had about an hour and a half of breathable air before he died from carbon dioxide poisoning.

  CHAPTER 4

  The helicopter swooped in. Curt waved frantically to get their attention as Father N stood off to the side.

  “Is everyone okay?” a man from the helicopter shouted down using an electronic megaphone. He was barely audible over the thumping rotors of the craft.

  Curt frantically pointed to the motionless bodies of Sherri and Fawn lying in the boat and emphatically shook his head no.

  “We’re sending in a rescue boat. We’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

  Curt waved to acknowledge the message.

  The helicopter peeled away, most likely searching for others who needed help after the river had swelled to catastrophic proportions before receding.

  “Your only chance of getting your friends out of Eden is to find the third Tool before that cult does,” Father N spoke in an urgent tone.

  Curt’s anger flared. “My girlfriend may be in a coma. I can’t just leave her.”

  “I told you, the plan is under way.”

  “Plan? What plan? And what did you mean when you said, ‘Humanity is coming to an end’?”

  “God knew a day would come when the human race would be abolished, whether by mankind’s own hand or some other disaster. At such time, it would be critical to reseed the Earth in order to make a new start. Eden is where this temporary reseeding will take place. Throughout the course of humanity, each generation has had two designated seeds: a male and a female. For this generation, it’s Cody Marks and Tina Falco. They have been prepared.”<
br />
  Cody and Tina? Tolen had mentioned something about a continuity plan. Then Curt thought of the similarity between Cody’s recent hospitalization and Tina’s illness several years ago. Both had experienced a medical condition which caused inflammation and fluid buildup in the cerebellum at the base of their skulls. In each case, the extremely rare condition had only lasted a couple days then had cleared up. It had always struck Curt as an odd coincidence, but now he realized it might have been something more, a physiological or mental capacity change, perhaps required for them to exist in Eden. Curt was aware of other cases where the intellectual capability of a human was altered by odd circumstances. In 2002, a community college dropout was mugged and knocked unconscious outside a bar. When he came to, he had what scientists refer to as “acquired savant syndrome.” The man is now one of a few people in the world who can draw approximations of fractals—the repeating geometric patterns that are building blocks of everything in the known universe—by hand. Curt wondered if something similar had happened to Tina and Cody. Tina had seemed so calm in the boat on the creek, even as her mother lay unconscious after the Serpent had attacked. It was as if she had matured to a superhuman level.

  “Why is this continuity plan being invoked now?” Curt asked.

  “The Cult of the End got their hands on an ancient relic: the Scroll of Edict.”

  “That’s the continuity plan, right?” Curt added.

  “No, no, it’s not God’s plan. The Scroll of Edict is evil, a countermeasure to thwart God’s plan of reseeding.”

  “And you’re suggesting the cult is going to carry this plan out? How?”

  “I don’t know.” Father N shook his head. “As I said, I see things in my dreams—learn secrets—but I don’t have all the answers. I do know that you and your friend are responsible for starting all this.”

  “What?” Curt was incensed.

  “You were the ones who released the first God Tool—the Fish—from the gunpowder magazine in the St. Augustine castillo.”