Crown of Souls, page 34
He hung his head. Closed his eyes. It was futile and stupid, he knew. But . . . “I have to do something. There has to be a way to save him.”
“Why are you so hung up on this?”
“On saving him?” He stood. Took her hand but couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “Because I know what it’s like to be saved.” Now he did look at her. “You believe in me so resolutely”—he traced the line of her jaw—“though I have no idea why.”
She breathed around a smile. “I believe in you, Cole, because you are a good man. Constantly working to grow and be a better person. Alec isn’t worried about being a better man. He’s like a child stomping his foot to get his way, only he’s using violence to do that. Look at the site we just came from. Attacking you—us. Runt said that guy was going to kill you.”
Tox folded her into his arms. “I wish I could see this the way you do.” She did have a point. So did the professor. So why couldn’t Tox let it go? Why couldn’t he accept that he was different from Alec?
“You weren’t meant to fight this alone. On our own, we are nothing,” Haven said, her voice soft. Her eyes pleading. “God gave you this team, and me. It says in Exodus that He will fight for us, if we will just be still.”
That pried a small smile from his unwilling lips. “Chiji says God chose me.” He shrugged. “If I am to stay still, what did He choose me for?”
“That others may see His might through you. That you learn the humility of obedience.” Haven smiled. “Don’t hate me for saying that. Obedience and stillness are often the two hardest things we have to do.”
Tox snorted.
Dr. Cathey appeared in the doorway, hugging a stack of papers to his chest, his face drawn.
Alarm pierced Tox. “What is it?”
The professor rushed in, dumping the documents across the mattress. “I think . . .” Frantic, wild eyes took in the papers. “I think we’re in trouble.”
Thy Stern Avenger Be
— 1178 AD —
TVERIA, ISRAEL
Stuffing on his greaves, Thefarie stood at the door, eyeing through the sliver of an opening his brother-knights mounted and ready to return to their quest. His heart hung heavy in his chest.
Gentle hands took the second greave from him. “You will return to me, aye?”
He stared down at the dark-haired beauty and into the softest brown eyes he had ever beheld. He touched her cheek, anxious to remember, to brand into his memory the moment she looked up to him. Admired him. Loved him.
Because if he failed . . .
The Grand Master’s words came sailing back from that day a fortnight ago.
“I can make no promises,” he said, his words low, like his spirits.
“Aye, but you should. To make me feel better.” She smiled, lacing the armor tight about his sides.
His hand went to her rounding belly. His progeny. He’d caved—she, Miryam, daughter of a scribe, had lured him out of his self-imposed isolation. Convinced him to taste pleasure. But his gut roiled—if he failed, he could not return home. It would be better for him to be dead. Then, at least, his wife and child would be cared for. But if he were shamed, she and the child would be mocked. Perhaps beaten or stoned.
“There is much in your eyes this day, Thefarie.” Miryam ran her fingers over his beard. “Fret not, my beloved. This will not be our last meeting.”
“If I fall, if anything happens to me, return to your father. Go to him—”
She pressed her finger against his lips. “Nay.” Her eyes blazed. “I will not hear this. You will return to me.”
He caught her shoulders. “Miryam—”
She touched her mouth to his. Then ducked out the door, calling to his brother-knights. “You should hurry before he changes his mind.”
Thefarie glanced around their humble home. A one-room dwelling with a table, two chairs, and cushions. Some pottery. Little, yet plenty when he considered what he really had—her love.
Lifting his helm, he folded himself through the exit. He stepped into the bright morning to the laughter of his brother-knights. Miryam stood nearby, waiting to see him off.
“See what happens when you take a woman?” Giraude laughed. “You grow soft.”
Swinging onto his destrier, Thefarie allowed himself a smile.
“Do you jest?” Ameus said. “Soft for Thefarie is a rock to us. For you—soft is water.”
“You have room to talk,” Giraude replied with a laugh.
They rode out of the city in silence, thoughts heavy with admonishment and the challenge of the Grand Master’s warning. As Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, they took their oaths seriously—especially the “poor” part, owning no other clothing save their mantles and armor. The dwelling he shared with Miryam wasn’t even their property, but loaned to them by friends.
As they left Israel’s embrace, they paused and turned, staring back at the Holy Land. He would not fail it, his orders, or Miryam.
“Softness has no place in our lives now, brother-knights,” Thefarie warned. “There will be no mercy. There will be no grace. There will only be the stern avenger of the Lord Jesus.”
33
— DAY 28 —
OUTSIDE MOSUL, IRAQ
“Thanks for linking up,” Cole said after the feeds came online with SAARC, DoD, and CIA. “Dr. C has something he wanted to share.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know yet. He insisted on waiting until we were all here.” After glancing around at the team, Cole nodded to the professor and took a seat next to Haven.
Dr. Cathey cleared his throat. “Considering the events that have happened with Mr. King and comparing them against events purported to be influenced by this crown in ancient history, I believe we are about to see a significant escalation of violence.”
“Hold up,” Cole said, pulling forward in his chair. “How can you possibly know that’s going to happen?”
“It’s a theory,” Tzivia put in, arms crossed over her chest. “He’s notorious for them.”
“Perhaps,” Dr. Cathey said with a nod, “but even you must admit my theories often prove to be true.”
“Escalation?” Iliescu repeated. “Haven’t we seen enough? How does one escalate—”
“He will do things that do not make sense.”
“Killing innocents doesn’t make sense,” the director said.
“But these will be things that have no connection. His hunger for the crown’s influence will force him to do things just for the surge of power. But to be sure, let’s take a look at history. I should first mention that I agree with what Ti Tzaddik said about the three markers evident in the lives of those who wear the crown: the inability to be stopped, the notable arrogance, and last, the descent into madness. As Mr. Tzaddik also pointed out, the crown most likely originated in the Middle Assyrian era and appears to have affected the reigns of Shalmaneser I and Tukulti-Ninurta I.”
“But only one of them wrote about a crown that fell from heaven—Nimrod,” Haven said.
“True, but it is not outside the realm of possibility that Tukulti-Ninurta was in fact so deeply affected by the crown’s properties—whether they are supernatural or borne of some emitted frequency—that he hallucinated or perhaps even honestly believed he saw it fall from heaven.” Dr. Cathey smiled as he peered over the rim of his glasses at the team. “One cannot know for sure, except to say he indeed wrote of the crown and he indeed was shut away by his son and later murdered.”
“We know all this,” Cell moaned. “You woke me for this? Do you know what I was dreaming about?”
“Maangi in a kilt?” Thor asked with a laugh.
The Maori slapped the back of his head.
With a click of his tongue, Dr. Cathey resumed his explanation. “There is a story about Shalmaneser, that he burned a village to the ground with a fire so hot that there were no bones to be found.” Dr. Cathey gave a mournful shake of his head. “There is another story that said he slaughtered cows and livestock until blood drenched the fields. For no apparent reason other than to exert his dominance, to show his power. If you look at the lives of these Assyrian kings, you will see that they all ascribed to themselves some form of deification.”
“So you’re saying King is going to start slaughtering cows?” Tzivia asked.
“That might have already happened,” Cole said. “There’s the slaughtered livestock that Haven was unlucky enough to encounter.”
Grieved, Dr. Cathey shook his head. “If you follow the journey of Mr. King’s killings since coming into possession of the crown, you will see a pattern of escalation, albeit a slow one. At first, he was killing to right a personal wrong. Then, he began killing those not connected to him.”
“Then the dismemberment in the village where Keogh died,” Maangi said.
Dr. Cathey nodded. “And the livestock.”
“So . . . what, he’s going to nuke a city or something?” Cell asked.
Quiet fell over the room, and Haven couldn’t help but notice Cole had covered his mouth and sat staring at the table. But then he shifted. Straightened. Looked at the feed camera.
“Do we have any information on his location?”
“Negative,” Rodriguez said. “The most we have is that RFB your guy picked up. It’s our only lead.”
“Is there any way to jury-rig something to detect his signal?”
“To do that,” Cell said, “we have to know his exact frequency. And we don’t. It’s why we’re running three steps behind him. The last time we caught his signal was the strongest, but I had to stay on the plane”—he glowered at Cole—“in Israel, and in Ashur, there was no RFB.” Cell hesitated, shook his head. “We’re not anywhere near close enough.”
On his feet, Cole started pacing.
“We have to assume he knows what we’re trying to do,” Ram said.
“So that’d mean finding the jewels—” Thor said.
“Legacies,” Tzivia corrected.
“Whatever.”
“Back up,” Ram said. “We need to anticipate that he’ll be where we’re headed, Berlin and so on.”
“Or that he’s already been there,” Cell said, “which is better, because then I can get a lock on that frequency.”
“True. But he’s not worried about us. He’s got the crown.”
“I disagree,” Haven said calmly. “He is worried—not about all, but about one of us.”
“The sarge,” Cell said.
“Yeah,” Runt cut in, “but this guy has an agenda, right? So what’s the endgame? What’s he trying to do with this crown thing?”
Cole rubbed his jaw. “Wake up the armchair generals and the political machine stalemating combat engagements.”
Runt nodded. “He probably wants a big impact then. A big mark.”
“We need to look at upcoming events. See if we can get ahead of him, ahead of this thing.” Cole resumed pacing.
“Events?” Haven’s stomach churned.
“Where else would he have enough people to target?”
“There are events all over the world—football, rugby—”
“No no,” Cole said, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “Personal. Even though he hit that village, it was still connected to the military. It’s still personal to him, despite going outside his immediate circle of friends and knowledge.”
“So, something military,” Ram suggested.
The screen went crazy with people moving, chattering, and secondary feeds sliding along the screen, showing data that Haven couldn’t process fast enough. She turned her thoughts toward an event that would have enough draw for Alec, enough payout of violence.
“He’d need to feel it was justified,” Haven agreed. “The target would have to directly or indirectly have wronged him. He seems to blame his superiors.” She gasped, her heart racing as she thought of the fundraiser she’d been working on with Charlotte. She swallowed and caught Cole’s gaze.
He’d frozen, expectation hanging in his blue eyes. “You have something?”
She wet her lips, afraid to offer this. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“No, you do.” Confidence and assuredness met her gaze. “I see it in your eyes.”
“Give it to us,” Cell urged.
Should she be excited he knew her well enough to say that, or scared that he could read her so well? “I . . . I’ve been volunteering”—she probably shouldn’t mention Charlotte—“with a charity. They’re holding a gala in a couple of days. I’m not integral, and they have a large support staff, so I haven’t been doing much with it—”
“Haven.”
She took a breath in. Let it out . . . slowly. “The Endeavor of Patriots gala.”
Several curses filtered through the room, including from the feed.
“It’s in two days.” She nodded. There was more certainty to her supposition than she wanted to admit. “It’s in Maryland. Brass from every branch, along with award recipients that include the Purple Heart, Audie Murphy, and—” Her dry throat trapped her next words, held them hostage.
Iliescu spoke from the screen. “The president will be there, too.”
Palms on the table, Cole stared at the screen. “Of course . . .”
“This is a long shot,” Almstedt mumbled. “There’s no way to know he’s targeting this event, or that he’s even targeting one at all.”
Cole had locked onto Haven. He stared as if willing her to understand his thoughts, hear the anguish roiling through him. And she did.
“No,” she said loudly. “No, it’s the Endeavor event.” It made entirely too much sense.
Straightening, Cole said, “This is where he’ll hit.”
“Why are you so sure?” Iliescu asked, looking at Haven. “Because his brother is going to be there?”
“No,” Haven said, breathing harder, “because it’s being held at his parents’ home.” Not only did Alec want to sucker-punch Tox, he probably wanted to upend Charlotte and Eric Russell’s lives. Shatter them by revealing that Cole was alive. Resolution cemented her words. “This is personal to Alec. He’s mad. At Cole.”
“Whoa. Wait. Why is this a thing against Tox?” Cell asked, his young face a mask of confusion.
“Because Alec invited me to the party, and I didn’t show,” Cole said. “So now he’s going to punish me.”
Tox shouldered into his ruck and placed his M4 inside the Jeep. He was fed up. Irritated. Ready for this to be over. Annoyed, yet again, that Chiji wasn’t around. Then again, his friend’s proverbs would probably only grate right now.
“Sarge?” Shoulders hunched, Cell came toward him. “Can I have a minute?” He snapped his head to the side, indicating where they could talk alone.
What was this about? Tox followed him to a spot a few yards away. “What’s up?”
“I . . .” Cell scratched his scruffy jaw. He had only appeared fifteen when they met, but lately his looks seemed to have caught up with his age. “I have a theory.”
“About what?”
Cell glanced at the others. Scratched his chin again. “How to stop King.”
Arms folded, Tox planted his feet and leaned in. “You have my attention.”
“Thing is,” Cell said, suddenly bashful, “it’s not the best answer.”
“It’s the only answer we have.”
Bobbing his head a few times, Cell shrugged. “I think . . .” He rubbed his jaw. “I think—in theory, if I could nail down this frequency, I might—again, this is only in theory—”
“Cell.”
He huffed. “I think I could turn it back on him.”
“Turn it back?” Tox wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.
“Yeah, see? The crown is emitting this frequency, and I think if I can get close enough, maybe . . .” Another shrug. “I’m thinking if I send back a burst at the same frequency, maybe it’ll fry the one the crown’s emitting.”
Surprise leapt between them. “That’ll work?”
Cell quirked one side of his mouth in a grimace. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“But sure enough to bring it to me.”
“Yeah, well, see, I’ve been testing it on some spare equipment, and it works, but—”
“Make it work, Cell.”
“Thing is, Sarge—”
“What?” Tox snapped, irritated with his indecisiveness.
“I have some friends stateside, at a certain university that should remain nameless.” Cell cleared his throat. “I had them run some experiments with the RFB. They did trials . . .” He wouldn’t look at Tox as his expression fell. “They failed.”
“How?”
“The outbound frequency has to be high enough to create a feedback loop on the inbound frequency, scramble it. But the gray matter”—he tapped his temple—“isn’t protected. I mean, I’m totally winging this. It’s beyond theoretical and unproven. But that’s why the crown works, I guess. Because the brain is unprotected from the RFB. If it’s hitting King’s gray matter—that’s why it’s affecting him. If I back-charge it, so to speak, then it’ll back-charge his brain, too.”
“So it’ll hurt him?”
Cell snorted. “Yeah. If by hurt you mean turning his brain to scrambled eggs.”
“Unacceptable.” Tox glanced at the team, thinking. Knowing they had no other options. “Keep working it—find a way to turn it back without hurting Alec. If it can’t be done without killing him, it’s not an option.”
“But isn’t it?” Cell frowned. “I mean, we might have a way to stop him—he’s killing people! We take out terrorists like him all the time.”
“Just get it to work.” Tox took a step away, then stopped. “And keep this between us.”
“Roger that,” Cell muttered.
“Good work, Purcell.”
“Right.”
Tox nodded, his gaze snagging on Tzivia talking animatedly with Dr. Cathey. She pointed to a tablet she’d placed in the professor’s hands, tapping the screen in emphasis. Her mentor slowly gave a nod, angling the screen away from a sun glare, then his bushy eyebrows wagged. And he was nodding, too.
Tox felt hope surge and started toward them. “You got something?”
