Crown of Souls, page 39
He couldn’t move if he’d wanted to, the storm so violent, the fallout so deadly.
Not since she had sat at Arlington National Cemetery beside Charlotte Russell did Haven feel so absolutely wrecked. Yet somehow, this was worse. She was scared. Because the confident, unwavering man she’d come to love had vanished. Before her stood a boy. Desperate for hope. Desperate to be believed.
Her nerves thrummed. “Cole?”
He remained rigid, eyes drilling into her with a cold dread.
“Alec mentioned my sister. Brooke.”
At her name, he flinched.
Haven swallowed, not wanting to make the connections, not wanting to believe any of the outlandish theories bobbing on her churning thoughts. But the connections had been made long ago. The uncanny timing. The coincidence. The fact that al-Homsi died the same night as her sister.
Even though the Democrats lost the presidential race, young Senator al-Homsi found himself catapulted to the head of his party, which had control of the Senate, and was slated to chair the Select Committee on Intelligence, which would have given him access to highly sensitive intel critical to national security. He and the president-elect’s wife—both dead the same day.
“She died.” There. That was easy. Well, not easy, but more easily said than anything else tumbling through her brain. “But earlier, when Maangi mentioned the shots that killed al-Homsi, you not only gave three signs of deception, you mentioned collateral damage.”
He flinched again.
“By all reports, al-Homsi was alone, so how could there be collateral damage from his death? The driver wasn’t killed—in fact, he was under suspicion for a while. The media covered it heavily.” There was a connection in there somewhere. It hovered beneath the surface of this whole nightmare and rippled around them like a rip current.
Still, he watched her. Desperation pooled in his blue eyes.
“You’re not making this easy.” Nerves forced her to laugh. There was nothing funny. “Brooke was shot at home. Whoever did it used the gas stove to burn down the house.”
“That’s what they want you to believe.” His voice was hoarse. His words strained. Raw agony roiled through his expression. The effort it took to keep himself composed was working against him.
In the back of her mind, she thought she might be shaking her head.
“You know, Haven,” he said, searching her, willing her to say it. But why wouldn’t he? “You’re smarter than that, to believe she was killed by some random burglar in Arlington.”
She did shake her head this time, the weight of her thoughts clanging. A wall stood between them—not his wall. Hers. She didn’t want to move past it. Didn’t want to find the ugly truth lurking behind it.
A scowl dug into his brow. “She wasn’t at home when she died.”
Her objection hung suspended between her open lips.
“She was in al-Homsi’s limo.”
Air sucked at the back of her throat. Made her cough. “No. She had a gala. I was waiting on her and got mad—she knew I don’t like those things, not like she did—so I called her. Yelled at her for standing me up.” Her eyes swam in tears. “The baby-sitter was late. Brooke was running behind—”
“When did they ever bring in a sitter for Evie?” Tox growled. “She was with my mom.”
“Your—no. Your mom would’ve told me.” Haven shook her head. “Evie was with a sitter.”
“They never hired a sitter for her. Ever. You know that, if you think about it. If you stop trying to hide from the truth.”
Haven drew back, startled at his animosity. “Don’t do this, Cole. Don’t put this on me.”
“Brooke was with al-Homsi that night—in his limo.”
Her mind scrambled for purchase. “But those limos are armored. Shots wouldn’t have penetrated.”
“They had to use a different limo. Last-minute engine trouble.”
Haven swallowed, realizing what he was saying without directly saying it. Someone had created the trouble. Just like someone had with their vehicles in Iraq.
The answers were there. But she wouldn’t believe them. They were too terrible. “No.” Tears blurred her vision. She sliced a hand through the air. “No. Your mom would’ve told me she had Evie. What would my sister even be doing with someone like al-Homsi?”
“I don’t know, but she was there!” he snapped, his face reddened. “And when I took the shot, I somehow—” His jaw clamped shut. He stopped talking. Moving. Was he even breathing? His blue eyes sparked with panic, his rugged features contorting. As if the words he’d nearly spoken were trapped within his own war. A fight between self-disgust and terror. He cocked his head. “I—”
“Stop.” Haven wasn’t sure why he was so angry with her. And she wasn’t going to be a casualty of this scenario. “They wanted you—”
“It wasn’t them, Haven. It was me.”
She stilled, hands trembling. Heart trembling, hovering on the verge of words she knew were about to change everything.
“I killed Brooke.”
And God Forget Us in the Hour
— 1180 AD —
SOMEWHERE IN SYRIA
Steel clanged against steel. Vibrations wormed through his gloves, but Thefarie used his height and size advantage against the Saracen. He pushed him back, shouldering in as he freed his dagger and drove it into the enemy’s side.
The man gaped. His eyes bulged.
Thefarie stepped back. Held his sword in both hands and delivered the man’s body of its head.
There was no time to revel in the death, for two more Saracens came at him. They were relentless. And many. So very many. With Thefarie were a hundred soldiers and just as many brother-knights. St. Amand had given him one last chance to drive back Salah ad-Din and retrieve the crown.
Dealing with the next Saracen, Thefarie forbade his thoughts from drifting to his wife. To his newborn child. He knew not if he had a son or daughter. It had been more than a year, and no word had come. He refused to return home and be made a mockery of in his failure. Best to remain in the battle, reputation intact.
“Sandstorm!” someone shouted.
Thefarie glanced back and saw the great brown wall crawling toward them. Howling pervaded the battlefield. He tied a cloth around the slats in his helm to protect himself, knowing the Saracens would seize the storm, think it an advantage. It would not be the first time.
Even as he thought it, a sea of Saracens flooded over the northern rise, descending on them.
“God have mercy,” Giraude railed from nearby.
Perhaps even God was angry with them—why else would there be so many attacks, so many failures? Had God turned his back on them?
Thefarie swung his sword again, hitting another enemy. Then another. He deftly avoided several strikes but felt more than one glancing blow off his armor. Were he not tall and strong, he might have succumbed to the strikes of the smaller Saracens. But he was not going down. Not today. Not until he had that accursed crown.
A shriek went up.
Thefarie jolted and saw Giraude stumble, go down, his arm dangling bloody at the side.
Rage tore through Thefarie, sighting the Saracen attacking his brother-knight unyieldingly. He was there in a flash, swinging. Arcing. Driving the man back in a rage of furious strikes.
“We must retreat,” Ameus said. “We’re badly outnumbered.”
“And surrounded,” Thefarie shouted, going to Giraude’s side and helping him to his feet.
“Get me on my horse,” Giraude grunted, his knees buckling as he walked. “Tie me on.”
“You’ve lost your faculties,” Thefarie said.
“No, just my arm.” He pointed with his sword. “My horse!”
But even as he helped Giraude toward his mount, the storm reached for them. Sand felt like shards of glass, tinkling against their armor. Needling into their chain mail. Rubbing between steel and flesh.
Thefarie saw the swarm of Saracens closing in and did something he rarely did—he hesitated.
“God have mercy,” Giraude said.
“I think He has forgotten us in this hour because I have failed again.”
“Do not be so quick to give up on God,” Giraude said. “He has not given up on you.”
“I think you may be wrong.”
“If I am not, I want your mercenary sword.”
Thefarie nearly smiled, but the tsing of a blade drew him around. Two men surged toward them, wielding swords. Thefarie defended himself and Giraude, who had collapsed to the ground without Thefarie’s support. The Saracens drove them back, unrelenting in their blows and fury.
Thefarie felt his own fury, his thoughts flinging out toward Tveria. Toward Miryam. He would die, not in shame, but in defending their Lord Jesus Christ.
But failure—if he died, was that failure? Would they—
A clang rang out, knocking him back a step. Only Giraude was there. Sand and Saracens before him. Thefarie shifted, and his boot caught on something. He went down hard.
The Saracens lunged.
Darkness dropped over Thefarie, pitch black. Confusion rankled him as his mind warred to sort out what had happened. He hung his head, trying to stop the sandstorm from filling his helm, and waited.
It had happened before, a storm like this. They waited it out. And even before the veil of darkness lifted with the storm passing, the Saracens were fighting again. They were used to this. The knights were not. Even Thefarie, who had been here far too many years. I fear this may be my last.
Only then did he realize he and Giraude had been covered by something. A tarp of some kind. Why had they been protected?
When the howling of the raging desert died down, Thefarie fought to free them. Even as he did, he found the Saracens springing out of the sand.
One flew at Thefarie.
He shoved upward, but his legs got caught in the tarp. Useless, he fell back again. His heart vaulted into his throat as he watched the sword coming down.
Shapes shrouded in black leapt from the grains, like their own mini-storms. Whirls of shadows. Moving lightning fast.
His mind struggled in confusion for a second longer. Then the battle was over. A man in head-to-toe black stood over him, legs straddling Thefarie’s. Only his eyes were visible through a slit in the fabric covering his face.
The man looked around, drawing Thefarie’s stunned gaze to the surrounding area. Bodies littered the field. Two dozen black shapes like the one standing over him converged. The man turned back to him and tugged off the hood.
Recognition hit him hard. “Bahir.”
“I want the one they call Thefarie,” a voice boomed in the distance.
Thefarie came to his feet with the aid of Bahir. To his great shock, the entire host of Saladin’s army sat perched on the plain, apparently having chased the storm to gain the advantage.
Gripping his sword tight, Thefarie started forward.
“He will kill you,” Bahir hissed, catching his arm. “We can protect you here. But not there.”
“Get my brother-knights to safety.” He slid his sword into its scabbard. “God has forgotten me. It is just as well that you should, too.”
Hope abandoned, faith flagging, Thefarie started forward. One might think courage advanced him, but this was a death march. Behind him, he heard his brother-knights shouting at him.
But he would not fail his honor. He would not walk darkly back to Tveria. To Miryam. He would not give Grand Master St. Amand that satisfaction, to strip the great Thefarie of Tveria of rank and dignity.
A black horse and its rider galloped forward.
So. It was to be one-on-one.
A fleeting dart of hope shot through him. He might have a chance in hand-to-hand combat. He let that tendril of hope sprout through his chest.
Until he saw the rider.
Saladin. The great sultan himself.
Thefarie stopped. Spread his feet.
The ground rattled as the destrier barreled toward him. Saladin rode a tight circle around him, dust and rocks spitting at Thefarie. Then he drew the horse around in front of him and let it stamp its feet.
“Dawiyya!” Saladin shouted, using the Arabic name for the Templars. “You are everywhere, contaminating the earth with your blood.”
Holding his peace, Thefarie watched the revered general, his face partially shielded by the protective plate of his helmet. Saladin was in battle gear. Not ceremonially, though this conversation was clearly a display for his army. For Thefarie’s shame.
“The crown,” Thefarie said. “Clearly even you know it is too much weight for your shoulders.”
In a fluid move, the sultan slid from his mount and stalked over to him. “You seek the crown.” Amusement tinged his heavily accented words.
“You know I do. I sought it in your camp. I seek it now.”
“And if I do not have it?”
“I will pursue you until I recover it.”
“To the ends of the earth?”
“To hell, if I must.”
Anger glinted in the Saracen’s eyes. “You will not have it. No man will. Ever.” His gaze darkened. “It is a wicked thing, this crown.”
Thefarie studied him. Studied the emotion roiling through his hard features. “I will recover it. I must. I have been sent by God.”
“And God has told me to bury it from all mankind.” He shook a finger. “No, you will not find it. No one will. It is gone!” He waved dismissively.
“I will not cease my pursuit until I have recovered it and delivered it to the Grand Master for destruction.”
“Then your journey will be long and fruitless.”
“Whatever it takes. If I must raze your home and army, I will. I will not fail.”
“If you do this, Thefarie of Tveria”—the sultan’s tone of cold malice chilled the air—“you will see my fury. Here against your knights, and in all your homelands. I will not stop until you are all wiped from the face of the earth!”
“To the last one standing.”
Nostrils flaring, Saladin inclined his head. “As you will it, Dawiyya.”
39
— DAY 29 —
AIRSTRIP OUTSIDE LONDON
Ripping his chest open and crushing his heart, Haven walked out of the plane’s conference room. Silently. No tears. No screaming. No anger. Just stunned silence, leaving an icy trail in its wake.
He wanted to call after her but this was what he’d expected. What he deserved. She couldn’t love the man he had become. The monster she’d vowed he wasn’t.
It was over.
Alec had won.
He groaned and slumped against the table, palms to the cold surface. Knew it. He knew he’d lose her with the truth.
He’d lost himself that night. Brooke, bleeding out in his arms. Apologizing to her over and over. Some suit showed up fast. Too fast. Told Tox he didn’t belong there. That he had to leave before authorities responded to the incident.
But he couldn’t leave Brooke. Couldn’t extricate himself from the asphalt collecting her blood. Watching tears slide down her face. Perfectly styled hair askew against his arm. She’d broken his heart a decade earlier by eloping with Galen while Tox had been at Basic. He’d wished the two of them dead many times. Never meant it.
His ears popped, and Tox lifted his head from the memories and grief, realizing the plane was descending. How long had he been in the conference room alone? He glanced at the wall clock. Still, he stayed in the room. Alone.
Only when the tires screeched on the runway did he consider getting up. But there was still too much pinning him to the seat, to the past. He’d thought taking that deal would even things out, buy the guys back their lives. He’d already lost everything. Then they dragged him back into the game, and he reconnected with his men. A side bonus was the reintroduction to Haven. A reintroduction to love.
Now he was hollowed out, hope gone.
Where was Chiji when he needed him? He always had a good Bible verse or Igbo saying for any situation. Tox sure needed one now. But maybe there wasn’t a saying or verse for him now. Because he wasn’t sure this could be fixed. Maybe he was just on his own.
As it should be. He’d accepted four years ago that he’d be alone for the rest of his life. But he’d had a taste of happiness—Haven. Now he’d lost her.
Why are you taunting me, God? Rubbing my nose in this, just to remind me I’m not good enough?
A soft click pulled his gaze from the table.
Ram stood in the doorway with his arms folded. “What happened with you and Haven?”
“She left.” He stared down at the brown surface again.
“Nice try. Now—what happened?”
Keeping the secret didn’t matter anymore, but the truth wasn’t easy to push across his tongue either. “I killed her sister that night.”
“Same sister you had a thing for, the one your brother stole?”
“She only had one sister.” He could still see Brooke, hear her breathing go ragged, then shallow. As her pulse went thready. “In the same second I eased back the trigger to kill al-Homsi”—he tightened his jaw—“someone moved into the line of sight. Into the path of the bullet. Someone who shouldn’t have been there.”
Ram heaved a sigh. “That’s why it took two bullets.”
“First one hit her, then him, going wide.” Numbness spread through Tox. “Second finished him.”
“Why was she there?”
Tox shook his head, pursing his lips. “No idea.” Swallowed against a tight throat. “Couldn’t get answers. Sure made a lot of noise trying, though. Got me nowhere. They said if I didn’t leave that night, I’d hang for everything.”
“So you left?”
Another snort. “Told them I wasn’t leaving until I had answers.” He’d really thought he was in control back then.
“Let me guess. They said they’d renege.”
“Not just renege but take you all down in flames. Throw everything at you, buy the verdict. Death penalties across the board.”
And now, years later, it had all gone down in flames anyway. Was there any way to get Haven back?
Only if he could resurrect Brooke.
“Attaway?”
He blinked at Ram. “What?”
Not since she had sat at Arlington National Cemetery beside Charlotte Russell did Haven feel so absolutely wrecked. Yet somehow, this was worse. She was scared. Because the confident, unwavering man she’d come to love had vanished. Before her stood a boy. Desperate for hope. Desperate to be believed.
Her nerves thrummed. “Cole?”
He remained rigid, eyes drilling into her with a cold dread.
“Alec mentioned my sister. Brooke.”
At her name, he flinched.
Haven swallowed, not wanting to make the connections, not wanting to believe any of the outlandish theories bobbing on her churning thoughts. But the connections had been made long ago. The uncanny timing. The coincidence. The fact that al-Homsi died the same night as her sister.
Even though the Democrats lost the presidential race, young Senator al-Homsi found himself catapulted to the head of his party, which had control of the Senate, and was slated to chair the Select Committee on Intelligence, which would have given him access to highly sensitive intel critical to national security. He and the president-elect’s wife—both dead the same day.
“She died.” There. That was easy. Well, not easy, but more easily said than anything else tumbling through her brain. “But earlier, when Maangi mentioned the shots that killed al-Homsi, you not only gave three signs of deception, you mentioned collateral damage.”
He flinched again.
“By all reports, al-Homsi was alone, so how could there be collateral damage from his death? The driver wasn’t killed—in fact, he was under suspicion for a while. The media covered it heavily.” There was a connection in there somewhere. It hovered beneath the surface of this whole nightmare and rippled around them like a rip current.
Still, he watched her. Desperation pooled in his blue eyes.
“You’re not making this easy.” Nerves forced her to laugh. There was nothing funny. “Brooke was shot at home. Whoever did it used the gas stove to burn down the house.”
“That’s what they want you to believe.” His voice was hoarse. His words strained. Raw agony roiled through his expression. The effort it took to keep himself composed was working against him.
In the back of her mind, she thought she might be shaking her head.
“You know, Haven,” he said, searching her, willing her to say it. But why wouldn’t he? “You’re smarter than that, to believe she was killed by some random burglar in Arlington.”
She did shake her head this time, the weight of her thoughts clanging. A wall stood between them—not his wall. Hers. She didn’t want to move past it. Didn’t want to find the ugly truth lurking behind it.
A scowl dug into his brow. “She wasn’t at home when she died.”
Her objection hung suspended between her open lips.
“She was in al-Homsi’s limo.”
Air sucked at the back of her throat. Made her cough. “No. She had a gala. I was waiting on her and got mad—she knew I don’t like those things, not like she did—so I called her. Yelled at her for standing me up.” Her eyes swam in tears. “The baby-sitter was late. Brooke was running behind—”
“When did they ever bring in a sitter for Evie?” Tox growled. “She was with my mom.”
“Your—no. Your mom would’ve told me.” Haven shook her head. “Evie was with a sitter.”
“They never hired a sitter for her. Ever. You know that, if you think about it. If you stop trying to hide from the truth.”
Haven drew back, startled at his animosity. “Don’t do this, Cole. Don’t put this on me.”
“Brooke was with al-Homsi that night—in his limo.”
Her mind scrambled for purchase. “But those limos are armored. Shots wouldn’t have penetrated.”
“They had to use a different limo. Last-minute engine trouble.”
Haven swallowed, realizing what he was saying without directly saying it. Someone had created the trouble. Just like someone had with their vehicles in Iraq.
The answers were there. But she wouldn’t believe them. They were too terrible. “No.” Tears blurred her vision. She sliced a hand through the air. “No. Your mom would’ve told me she had Evie. What would my sister even be doing with someone like al-Homsi?”
“I don’t know, but she was there!” he snapped, his face reddened. “And when I took the shot, I somehow—” His jaw clamped shut. He stopped talking. Moving. Was he even breathing? His blue eyes sparked with panic, his rugged features contorting. As if the words he’d nearly spoken were trapped within his own war. A fight between self-disgust and terror. He cocked his head. “I—”
“Stop.” Haven wasn’t sure why he was so angry with her. And she wasn’t going to be a casualty of this scenario. “They wanted you—”
“It wasn’t them, Haven. It was me.”
She stilled, hands trembling. Heart trembling, hovering on the verge of words she knew were about to change everything.
“I killed Brooke.”
And God Forget Us in the Hour
— 1180 AD —
SOMEWHERE IN SYRIA
Steel clanged against steel. Vibrations wormed through his gloves, but Thefarie used his height and size advantage against the Saracen. He pushed him back, shouldering in as he freed his dagger and drove it into the enemy’s side.
The man gaped. His eyes bulged.
Thefarie stepped back. Held his sword in both hands and delivered the man’s body of its head.
There was no time to revel in the death, for two more Saracens came at him. They were relentless. And many. So very many. With Thefarie were a hundred soldiers and just as many brother-knights. St. Amand had given him one last chance to drive back Salah ad-Din and retrieve the crown.
Dealing with the next Saracen, Thefarie forbade his thoughts from drifting to his wife. To his newborn child. He knew not if he had a son or daughter. It had been more than a year, and no word had come. He refused to return home and be made a mockery of in his failure. Best to remain in the battle, reputation intact.
“Sandstorm!” someone shouted.
Thefarie glanced back and saw the great brown wall crawling toward them. Howling pervaded the battlefield. He tied a cloth around the slats in his helm to protect himself, knowing the Saracens would seize the storm, think it an advantage. It would not be the first time.
Even as he thought it, a sea of Saracens flooded over the northern rise, descending on them.
“God have mercy,” Giraude railed from nearby.
Perhaps even God was angry with them—why else would there be so many attacks, so many failures? Had God turned his back on them?
Thefarie swung his sword again, hitting another enemy. Then another. He deftly avoided several strikes but felt more than one glancing blow off his armor. Were he not tall and strong, he might have succumbed to the strikes of the smaller Saracens. But he was not going down. Not today. Not until he had that accursed crown.
A shriek went up.
Thefarie jolted and saw Giraude stumble, go down, his arm dangling bloody at the side.
Rage tore through Thefarie, sighting the Saracen attacking his brother-knight unyieldingly. He was there in a flash, swinging. Arcing. Driving the man back in a rage of furious strikes.
“We must retreat,” Ameus said. “We’re badly outnumbered.”
“And surrounded,” Thefarie shouted, going to Giraude’s side and helping him to his feet.
“Get me on my horse,” Giraude grunted, his knees buckling as he walked. “Tie me on.”
“You’ve lost your faculties,” Thefarie said.
“No, just my arm.” He pointed with his sword. “My horse!”
But even as he helped Giraude toward his mount, the storm reached for them. Sand felt like shards of glass, tinkling against their armor. Needling into their chain mail. Rubbing between steel and flesh.
Thefarie saw the swarm of Saracens closing in and did something he rarely did—he hesitated.
“God have mercy,” Giraude said.
“I think He has forgotten us in this hour because I have failed again.”
“Do not be so quick to give up on God,” Giraude said. “He has not given up on you.”
“I think you may be wrong.”
“If I am not, I want your mercenary sword.”
Thefarie nearly smiled, but the tsing of a blade drew him around. Two men surged toward them, wielding swords. Thefarie defended himself and Giraude, who had collapsed to the ground without Thefarie’s support. The Saracens drove them back, unrelenting in their blows and fury.
Thefarie felt his own fury, his thoughts flinging out toward Tveria. Toward Miryam. He would die, not in shame, but in defending their Lord Jesus Christ.
But failure—if he died, was that failure? Would they—
A clang rang out, knocking him back a step. Only Giraude was there. Sand and Saracens before him. Thefarie shifted, and his boot caught on something. He went down hard.
The Saracens lunged.
Darkness dropped over Thefarie, pitch black. Confusion rankled him as his mind warred to sort out what had happened. He hung his head, trying to stop the sandstorm from filling his helm, and waited.
It had happened before, a storm like this. They waited it out. And even before the veil of darkness lifted with the storm passing, the Saracens were fighting again. They were used to this. The knights were not. Even Thefarie, who had been here far too many years. I fear this may be my last.
Only then did he realize he and Giraude had been covered by something. A tarp of some kind. Why had they been protected?
When the howling of the raging desert died down, Thefarie fought to free them. Even as he did, he found the Saracens springing out of the sand.
One flew at Thefarie.
He shoved upward, but his legs got caught in the tarp. Useless, he fell back again. His heart vaulted into his throat as he watched the sword coming down.
Shapes shrouded in black leapt from the grains, like their own mini-storms. Whirls of shadows. Moving lightning fast.
His mind struggled in confusion for a second longer. Then the battle was over. A man in head-to-toe black stood over him, legs straddling Thefarie’s. Only his eyes were visible through a slit in the fabric covering his face.
The man looked around, drawing Thefarie’s stunned gaze to the surrounding area. Bodies littered the field. Two dozen black shapes like the one standing over him converged. The man turned back to him and tugged off the hood.
Recognition hit him hard. “Bahir.”
“I want the one they call Thefarie,” a voice boomed in the distance.
Thefarie came to his feet with the aid of Bahir. To his great shock, the entire host of Saladin’s army sat perched on the plain, apparently having chased the storm to gain the advantage.
Gripping his sword tight, Thefarie started forward.
“He will kill you,” Bahir hissed, catching his arm. “We can protect you here. But not there.”
“Get my brother-knights to safety.” He slid his sword into its scabbard. “God has forgotten me. It is just as well that you should, too.”
Hope abandoned, faith flagging, Thefarie started forward. One might think courage advanced him, but this was a death march. Behind him, he heard his brother-knights shouting at him.
But he would not fail his honor. He would not walk darkly back to Tveria. To Miryam. He would not give Grand Master St. Amand that satisfaction, to strip the great Thefarie of Tveria of rank and dignity.
A black horse and its rider galloped forward.
So. It was to be one-on-one.
A fleeting dart of hope shot through him. He might have a chance in hand-to-hand combat. He let that tendril of hope sprout through his chest.
Until he saw the rider.
Saladin. The great sultan himself.
Thefarie stopped. Spread his feet.
The ground rattled as the destrier barreled toward him. Saladin rode a tight circle around him, dust and rocks spitting at Thefarie. Then he drew the horse around in front of him and let it stamp its feet.
“Dawiyya!” Saladin shouted, using the Arabic name for the Templars. “You are everywhere, contaminating the earth with your blood.”
Holding his peace, Thefarie watched the revered general, his face partially shielded by the protective plate of his helmet. Saladin was in battle gear. Not ceremonially, though this conversation was clearly a display for his army. For Thefarie’s shame.
“The crown,” Thefarie said. “Clearly even you know it is too much weight for your shoulders.”
In a fluid move, the sultan slid from his mount and stalked over to him. “You seek the crown.” Amusement tinged his heavily accented words.
“You know I do. I sought it in your camp. I seek it now.”
“And if I do not have it?”
“I will pursue you until I recover it.”
“To the ends of the earth?”
“To hell, if I must.”
Anger glinted in the Saracen’s eyes. “You will not have it. No man will. Ever.” His gaze darkened. “It is a wicked thing, this crown.”
Thefarie studied him. Studied the emotion roiling through his hard features. “I will recover it. I must. I have been sent by God.”
“And God has told me to bury it from all mankind.” He shook a finger. “No, you will not find it. No one will. It is gone!” He waved dismissively.
“I will not cease my pursuit until I have recovered it and delivered it to the Grand Master for destruction.”
“Then your journey will be long and fruitless.”
“Whatever it takes. If I must raze your home and army, I will. I will not fail.”
“If you do this, Thefarie of Tveria”—the sultan’s tone of cold malice chilled the air—“you will see my fury. Here against your knights, and in all your homelands. I will not stop until you are all wiped from the face of the earth!”
“To the last one standing.”
Nostrils flaring, Saladin inclined his head. “As you will it, Dawiyya.”
39
— DAY 29 —
AIRSTRIP OUTSIDE LONDON
Ripping his chest open and crushing his heart, Haven walked out of the plane’s conference room. Silently. No tears. No screaming. No anger. Just stunned silence, leaving an icy trail in its wake.
He wanted to call after her but this was what he’d expected. What he deserved. She couldn’t love the man he had become. The monster she’d vowed he wasn’t.
It was over.
Alec had won.
He groaned and slumped against the table, palms to the cold surface. Knew it. He knew he’d lose her with the truth.
He’d lost himself that night. Brooke, bleeding out in his arms. Apologizing to her over and over. Some suit showed up fast. Too fast. Told Tox he didn’t belong there. That he had to leave before authorities responded to the incident.
But he couldn’t leave Brooke. Couldn’t extricate himself from the asphalt collecting her blood. Watching tears slide down her face. Perfectly styled hair askew against his arm. She’d broken his heart a decade earlier by eloping with Galen while Tox had been at Basic. He’d wished the two of them dead many times. Never meant it.
His ears popped, and Tox lifted his head from the memories and grief, realizing the plane was descending. How long had he been in the conference room alone? He glanced at the wall clock. Still, he stayed in the room. Alone.
Only when the tires screeched on the runway did he consider getting up. But there was still too much pinning him to the seat, to the past. He’d thought taking that deal would even things out, buy the guys back their lives. He’d already lost everything. Then they dragged him back into the game, and he reconnected with his men. A side bonus was the reintroduction to Haven. A reintroduction to love.
Now he was hollowed out, hope gone.
Where was Chiji when he needed him? He always had a good Bible verse or Igbo saying for any situation. Tox sure needed one now. But maybe there wasn’t a saying or verse for him now. Because he wasn’t sure this could be fixed. Maybe he was just on his own.
As it should be. He’d accepted four years ago that he’d be alone for the rest of his life. But he’d had a taste of happiness—Haven. Now he’d lost her.
Why are you taunting me, God? Rubbing my nose in this, just to remind me I’m not good enough?
A soft click pulled his gaze from the table.
Ram stood in the doorway with his arms folded. “What happened with you and Haven?”
“She left.” He stared down at the brown surface again.
“Nice try. Now—what happened?”
Keeping the secret didn’t matter anymore, but the truth wasn’t easy to push across his tongue either. “I killed her sister that night.”
“Same sister you had a thing for, the one your brother stole?”
“She only had one sister.” He could still see Brooke, hear her breathing go ragged, then shallow. As her pulse went thready. “In the same second I eased back the trigger to kill al-Homsi”—he tightened his jaw—“someone moved into the line of sight. Into the path of the bullet. Someone who shouldn’t have been there.”
Ram heaved a sigh. “That’s why it took two bullets.”
“First one hit her, then him, going wide.” Numbness spread through Tox. “Second finished him.”
“Why was she there?”
Tox shook his head, pursing his lips. “No idea.” Swallowed against a tight throat. “Couldn’t get answers. Sure made a lot of noise trying, though. Got me nowhere. They said if I didn’t leave that night, I’d hang for everything.”
“So you left?”
Another snort. “Told them I wasn’t leaving until I had answers.” He’d really thought he was in control back then.
“Let me guess. They said they’d renege.”
“Not just renege but take you all down in flames. Throw everything at you, buy the verdict. Death penalties across the board.”
And now, years later, it had all gone down in flames anyway. Was there any way to get Haven back?
Only if he could resurrect Brooke.
“Attaway?”
He blinked at Ram. “What?”
