Crown of Souls, page 43
Alec’s hand lifted. “You . . .”
Tox knelt, gaze sweeping the room for the dark-haired beauty who’d come with Alec. Then suddenly the air around him sizzled. A split-second blur, familiar from when the Arrow & Flame Order had wreaked havoc on the world with phosphorus arrows.
Disbelief pummeled him as he looked down and found a glowing arrow protruding from Alec’s chest, the acid already boiling through his skin. Alec convulsed twice and then fell still.
“Back!” he shouted, pushing away, heart hammering. The tremor of rage roiled through him.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Cell yelped through the comms.
The AFO had just killed their only way to find Haven. “Augh!” He shoved a chair across the room. Balled his hands into fists and growled.
The rest of the team whipped toward the open doors that led to the lawn. But hundreds of people milled around in the dark. Tox thought about hunting down the shooter, but the point was moot. In this kind of confusion, they’d be long gone. His gaze hit Ram’s and they shared a long, angry look filled with questions. Was the AFO shutting Alec up? Did they want Haven dead? Were they behind the crown?
A crash sounded at the back of the house near the library, followed by a shout that sounded a lot like Tzivia.
“The woman!” Ram guessed.
They darted down the hall, rounding the corner to the library. Behind them, a herd of security followed. There—movement in the corner.
The woman who’d been with Alec threw a wild punch at Tzivia, who—all grace and ease—deflected the blow like someone swatting away a fly rather than fighting for their life. She flipped her hand onto the woman’s wrist. Stepped to the side as she yanked the arm back and under, twisting—
Crack!
A shrill scream pierced the air.
Groans of sympathy pain rose behind Tox as the onlookers watched. Ram lunged forward and dropped on the woman, pinning her to the floor.
Tzivia stood over her conquest, then lifted something toward Tox. “The amulet.” And in her other hand— “Lapis lazuli.”
Admiration ran through Tox as he set eyes on the cuff she’d ripped off the woman. He nodded his approval as the agents moved in and secured Alec’s accomplice.
“I help you,” she said, her English broken. “I know where girlfriend is. She die if you no listen to me!”
“Hold up,” Tox snapped to the security detail. “Where is she?”
“I want deal.”
“All you’ll get is more time with her,” Tox said, nodding to Tzivia. “Now tell me where she is, or these agents will walk out of here for a coffee break.”
Holding her broken arm closer, the woman cringed. “He took her to place where crown must be returned. He know you go there. He want you to find her drowned. Dead,” she snarled at him. “And I hope she is!”
“Rodriguez,” Tox said through his comms, “did you get that?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Tox.”
He pivoted toward Ram. “Yeah?”
“That’s Iraq.”
“How’d he get her there?” Tzivia asked. “When’s the last time anyone saw her?”
“When she got off the plane yesterday,” Tox surmised.
“Iraq is a twelve- or fourteen-hour flight.” Ram’s eyes were bleak. Meaning even if they left now, they’d probably be too late.
“Six by Learjet.”
Tox turned, surprised to find his father on the other side of the room. And for a second, he forgot—forgot about the prostheses. Forgot he didn’t look like himself. Forgot about the years that had put distance between them. He stood before his father, feeling every ounce of rejection and disappointment he’d supplied in his thirty-two years.
“I have a Learjet,” his father said. “My pilot will meet you at Dulles.”
But six hours . . . Tox swallowed. “Thank you.”
His dad gave a nod, lifting his phone in acknowledgment as he left the room.
Bewilderment fastened Tox to the hardwood floor. “He didn’t even recognize me.”
“That was the point,” Ram said quietly, moving toward the hall.
It had been the point, but Tox hadn’t expected it to hurt that much. How could a father not know his own son? Then again, his father had always seen what he’d wanted to see. Not what was really before him.
“You certainly made a mess of my home tonight, gentlemen,” his mother said in a light but disapproving voice as she entered the library, Ram tailing her.
“Sorry about that, ma’am.”
“I hope you got what you were after.”
“Most of it, ma’am.” Nod and leave. Nod and leave. “Thanks.” Stiffly, he angled around the furniture, which brought him dangerously close to her.
“You never were one to clean up after yourself.”
Tox stilled. Felt the thrum of adrenaline buzzing in his veins. Did she really know who he was? Or was she talking to someone else? Maybe Galen? Should he check the room? Frozen in indecision, he waited. Then slid his eyes to his mother. His heart pounded. Did he acknowledge it? There were so many repercussions. “I think you might have me confused—”
“You might be confused, but I’m not.” Her eyes watered, but she maintained that control she’d always had. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know my own son?”
Abashed, he stood there. Feeling like he had at eight years old when he’d been caught testing his father’s hunting rifle. “We hoped . . .”
She half laughed, half sobbed. “It is you, isn’t it?” she asked, pleading in her voice. Arms spread in openness and affection, she welcomed him. “It’s really you, Cole Russell.”
Years of heartache, disappointment, and grief melted away as his mother wrapped him in an embrace as only a mother could. Crushing yet comforting. Loving and urgent. Theirs had never been a particularly affectionate relationship, but she always knew him. Always jerked him by the collar. Straightened him out. Challenged him. Loved him.
He might drown in this moment. But— “I have to go, Mom. Haven . . .”
She gasped and drew back. “It’s you—you’re the one she’s in love with.” Her laughter, so light and beautiful, rippled through the air. She reached up and cupped his face with her cool hands. “I should’ve known.”
He ached. Haven wasn’t in love with him any longer. “She’s in danger. Dad’s loaning us the Lear—”
“He knows?”
“About me? No.” The pain scoring his heart still shocked him, but he managed a semblance of a smile. “But he offered the Lear.”
“That daft man—he didn’t recognize you.”
Tox removed her hands. “I’ll come back. We’ll talk. I promise. But I have to find her.”
“You’d better come back, or I’ll hunt you down.”
He smiled. “No doubt.” Planted a kiss on her cheek and heard her quiet sob. “I’ll be back. Love you.”
“Actual! Need to move.”
The shout drew him around. With one last, furtive nod to her, he was out the door, hurrying toward the chaos.
44
— DAY 30 —
IRAQ
The king cobra puffed its hood. Threw itself at Haven’s leg. Fangs stabbed her flesh with piercing agony, and she screamed. Kicked her legs. Tried to lift herself, but she had no strength and her shoulder protested. Hot tears streaked down her face as the fiery venom coursed through her muscles.
The snake released her, then puffed again, arching back.
“God, help!”
The cobra didn’t strike again, but it also wasn’t leaving. But then, where would it go?
“God does not leave me nor forsake me,” she cried, her muscles aching. Her heart stuttering. “Exodus says you will fight for us, Lord. Please—fight for me. Your Word says no weapon formed against us will prosper, but there’s a fierce one pumping venom into my body.”
As her panic subsided, she realized the snake hadn’t coiled around her. Hadn’t struck again. She couldn’t see it anymore, but her leg burned like crazy.
Maybe the Bible verses and prayers were working. She kept quoting them. Pulling on years of church services and Bible studies.
The snake had to still be there. Why wasn’t it attacking again? Why hadn’t it slid up her body and wrapped around her? It could have constricted the air from her lungs.
Cobras were poisonous. She had to limit her movements. Slow the spreading of the venom. How long would it take? Minutes? She’d whisper her prayers and climb the ever-rising sand, eyes on the light above, just as she kept her eyes on the Father above. She found an ounce of comfort in the fact that she was now only a foot or two from the lip of the well. She cried out—but her voice caught in her throat. Dried from dehydration, it refused to cooperate.
Defeated, exhausted, aching, Haven closed her eyes and mouthed the verses and prayers. She would do it for as long as she could. Time fell away and took the sunlight with it.
She didn’t know when she’d fallen asleep or for how long, but Haven awoke to a tightness in her chest. Was it the venom? Losing lung capacity? But as she wondered, a frightening realization fell over her. Darkness. Tightness. It wasn’t the venom making it hard to breathe. The cistern had filled. Sand cocooned her shoulders.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDDLE EAST
Though the six-hour flight to Nimrud was half the length of a typical trip from Dulles to Iraq, it was still five hours and fifty-nine minutes too long for Tox.
Haven could be dead. Because of me.
It had been a game. One he’d been all too ready to play, convinced he was in control. Convinced he could control the life of another, the outcome. Convinced if he saved Alec, he could save himself.
But he couldn’t. Couldn’t save Alec. Or himself.
Alec had died. Would Haven die, too?
He couldn’t do it alone. That was the point, wasn’t it? Bringing him to the end of himself.
God, I need help. . . .
“Hey.” Ram came down the gangway with Cell, who had a laptop. “They found some things I think you’ll want to see.”
“Who?”
“Iliescu. This was yesterday morning, right after we landed in DC. They pieced things together.” He sat and angled the screen. “Haven took the rail into Arlington and got a hotel room.”
Tox leaned in. The video showed Haven leaving a check-in desk at a hotel. The next image was—
“What?” Tox couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Exactly,” Ram said. “Ti Tzaddik visited her.”
“How did he even know where she was? Did he take her?” He felt sick. “Was he working with Alec this whole time?”
Cell held up a finger. “Just watch.” He played another video. “This is security footage from outside the hotel, east entrance. Less populated.” He nodded at the screen. “Tzaddik emerges. Bright-white glare washes everything out, and then things are normal.”
Tox shrugged. “So did he—”
Amused, Cell held up his finger again. “I slowed down the footage. Filtered out the glare as much as I could.” He grinned. “Now watch.”
The video played again. But this time, the bright white glare was a streak. From a phosphorus arrow.
“Snagged right out of the air by Ti Tzaddik,” Cell announced.
“Pause it.” Disbelief squirmed through Tox as the footage clearly showed Tzaddik’s hand around the shaft of the unexpended arrow. “No way.”
“Exactly. But then!” He laughed and pointed to the screen, narrating what happened next. “The old man attacks the two men who come at him.”
Another flare of white swallowed Tzaddik, and the alley lay empty.
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”
“The dude vanished. But he caught that arrow in like a split second.”
“Vanished. How?” Never mind. All he cared about was Haven. “Did he take her?”
“No, but I think he was there to draw attention to this.” Cell made a few more clicks and brought up a third video. “These two bring out a laundry bin. But there’s only one parcel. And it’s heavy—look how they’re struggling to get it out of the cart.”
Bile rose in Tox’s throat. “Haven.” They put her in a freakin’ box.
The feed showed Tzaddik come out the side door after them. “Then they tried to kill him with those sick arrows.”
Ram leaned on the back of a seat. “They’re with the AFO.”
“A fight for another day. Haven is our concern now.” Tox looked at Cell. “Did you trace the van? Do we know—”
“It’s a dead end. Van disappeared.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot droned, “we’ll be landing for a refuel. No more than twenty minutes, and we’ll be airborne again. Flight path has been cleared for a straight shot into Mosul.”
“Black Hawk will take us the rest of the way,” Ram said.
Tzivia peered over her brother’s shoulder. “I’ve already talked with Mehdi, and he said they were forcibly removed from the site about six hours ago. No idea what’s going on.”
“Alec’s men,” Tox said, more convinced than ever. “She’s there. We need to be ready to hit and hit it hard.”
Mother of God! the Evening Fades
— 1187 AD —
TVERIA, ISRAEL
The crush of bodies held him fast. Thefarie stared over the citizens as he always had, the blood of time running through his veins. His gaze, locked on the sultan, saw but one course of action—battle. War. Bloodshed.
Yet his heart cried another—love!
Miryam. Ayla.
He pivoted, the rocks beneath his boots strangely loud in the chaotic din, and launched himself against the flow of bodies fleeing to the water to escape the siege. Though Saracens before Saladin had taken prisoners, rumor had raced across the Levant that Saladin was slaughtering captured knights. And he would make no exception for Thefarie. In fact, Saladin would take pleasure in cutting the breath from him. But Thefarie would not grant him the lives of his wife and daughter.
Large and powerful, Thefarie shoved through the crowd. The people clawed at him, begging for help, for protection. “To the water,” he urged them. Boats would take them across the Sea of Galilee to safety.
Thefarie pushed himself up the terraced cobbles. Two more turns. Past the baker’s house . . .
A shout came from his right.
He twisted, freeing his sword before he even saw the Saracen. The crowd around him dispersed with screams. Steel struck steel, vibrations rippling down his arm, but he swung again, advancing. Forcing the Saracen back—into a crowd. The man was young, not experienced. His death would be quick. Thefarie arced up and brought his blade down at the soft spot between shoulder and head. The Saracen fell, shock frozen on his dark features.
Thefarie did not wait. He hopped away, sprinting for the archway that separated homes from the market. Even as he rounded the corner, he spotted the sultan at the far end, his army slaughtering the people. Livid eyes fastened on him before Saladin glinted with excitement and urged his horse ahead.
He goes for Miryam.
Thefarie swung around and went up a winding passage. Around the cobbler’s hut and down a street lined with small homes. Thrusting aside people as he would branches on an overgrown path. They cared not either, fleeing for their lives.
One more row. Just one more row of houses, and he would be there. But the clopping thunder of hooves raced him. His heart beat faster, in cadence with the Saracens. Slapping the walls slowed his momentum enough to take the corner. Thefarie willed himself faster. Pleaded with the Lord God to grant him this one favor. Though he had earned none, despite his years of penance. One could not forgive the unforgiveable. He had no purity. He had known unconditional love, and somehow, it had not been enough.
That was long ago. A foolish, wicked, grievous mistake.
That he would relive for all time.
He crashed around the bend. Launched himself over the small pen at the edge of the city that held Baruk’s milk goats and a handful of sheep. Tripping and stumbling around the bleating, smelly animals, Thefarie sighted his small home. There at the door, clutching Ayla to her chest, Miryam looked around in fright. Eyes wide, her head covered, she scanned the panicked crowd.
“Miryam!” he called. “Come, come!”
She started toward him, but horses erupted in the narrow passage, cutting Thefarie off from his wife and child.
A destrier stomped before him, the rider edging it closer and closer. Taunting. Mocking.
Thefarie locked gazes with the sultan, separated from him by three horses. “Leave her and I will let you live!”
The sultan laughed. “I think you mistake your position, Dawiyya!”
“I think you mistake who—what you deal with.” Thefarie felt his old self rising. The one not satisfied with purity and perfection. If he could but unleash it by a fraction, he could end this. “She is not to be harmed, nor the child!”
The nearest Saracen extended a scimitar at him.
Thefarie seized it, mindless of its sharp edge, and hauled the rider off his mount. Straight into his fist. When the rider struggled, Thefarie landed another blow—this one lethal beneath his rage.
Silence dropped hard, save for the clops of hooves as the destriers shifted nervously. Thefarie drew closer to both his family and the sultan. A shout rose, and several Saracens fell on him. Fury and precision were his allies as he fought. A dagger to the throat of one, quick work. A sword driven up through the belly of the next. And still he advanced, closing the gap between him and his wife.
Though he felt steel pierce his thigh—a dagger—Thefarie ignored the pain. Focused on his mission. Dealt violently with the attackers. A nick stung his cheek. He swung his sword. Stabbed. Punched.
“Thefarie!”
Miryam’s voice froze him. She no longer stood at their home. He scanned, fending off yet another Saracen.
“Think, Dawiyya,” the sultan said, his sword laid across Miryam’s shoulder as he pulled her against his horse, “think on the shame you will feel if I take her life and let you live.”
