The Khan furrowed his brow, and his jaw set in a deep frown. "What did you say?"
The hood cocked to the side. He still couldn't see the face, but he assumed the stranger was giving him a bewildered look.
"Perhaps you don't have the stomach for that sort of thing. But let me be clear, Jani Beg." The figure swept forward in a blur, and a blade hidden in the folds of the robe flashed in the dim glow of fire and candle. Before the Khan could blink, the sharp edge was at his throat.
The gray eyes that stared back at him from under the hood reminded him of wolves he'd seen. They were wild, fearless, cunning, and in control of something dark, something sinister that begged to be loosed from its chains.
The Khan set his jaw, ready to die and unwilling to beg for mercy.
"Do what I said," the stranger sneered. "Fling the bodies into the city. The Genoese will have no choice but to flee back to their home country."
The visitor withdrew the knife with such speed the Khan barely saw it. The figure turned and started to the door.
"But, the illness—"
"Send the bodies over the wall. It will not take long for them to begin dying, too. When you're done, leave this place. It is a tomb that will drag you in as well. Do not return until they are all gone."
His dark frown deepened. He blew air out of his nostrils. "Why do you care if I die or not?" He wondered why this mysterious stranger came to him with this solution. More than once, Jani Beg considered the idea of throwing the bodies over the wall. That kind of biowarfare had been done for centuries, as far as he knew. But he loathed to use that tactic, if for no other reason than it would infect additional men from his ranks.
"I do not care," the visitor snarled. "But your purpose is not for dying."
His eyes narrowed at the statement. He wondered how this foreigner could speak his language so perfectly, as if the intruder had been speaking it their entire life.
"What is my purpose, then?"
"To kill."
Jani Beg’s head tilted up. He took a sort of pride in her insinuation. Killing had been a task with which he'd shown proficiency. "I've chosen the correct path, then." His left hand thumbed the dagger at his side, a discreet movement that the stranger could not have seen from their angle.
"So it would seem. Do as I said. Use the bodies of your dead in your siege machines. It won't be long before the Genoese and their allies are gone."
"I will issue the orders immediately."
The stranger's eyes narrowed at the sudden subordination, then spun to leave. The second the visitor turned their back, Jani Beg swiveled his hips. His loose grip on the dagger allowed it to whip across the room at a deadly pace.
He knew he'd risked much when he attempted to kill the visitor. Before, the robed figure had moved so quickly, he hadn't had time to react until the knife was at his throat. Now, however, with their back to him, he had his chance to teach them a lethal lesson. No one threatened the Khan.
The stranger heard the sudden movement, but only managed to turn fast enough to face the flung dagger as it sank into the figure’s abdomen just above the stomach. Instead of fear or confusion, the eyes that glowered back from under the hood merely displayed anger. The figure stepped forward, brandishing the blade from before. The second step brought a wince to the gray eyes. The right knee buckled, but still the attacker came. A third stride brought the assailant to their knees. The figure clutched the blade’s handle as though they might still attack, but Jani Beg could see it now. It was the same look his siblings had in their eyes after he killed them. The vapid, absent stare encroached into the once cunning gaze as death wrapped its bony fingers around slumping shoulders.
He'd seen that look in many men's eyes. And he knew he would see it again, perhaps many times, until the day of his demise. He swore he would not let that haunting stare take hold of him.
The figure's lips trembled, intent on delivering one last message to the Khan. "You fool," the voice hissed. "You have no idea what you've done."
"I killed an assassin," Jani Beg replied. He cautiously stepped forward. Blood from the stranger's lips soaked into the mask covering their face.
"No. You have risked the end of humanity."
The figure teetered for a moment, as if fighting for balance. Then the visitor fell over onto their side. Any grip their eyes had on this reality vanished as they stared vacantly toward the yurt's wall.
Jani Beg sighed through his nose and walked over to the body. He flipped back the hood with the tip of his sword and discovered the assassin was a woman. Long locks of golden hair were knotted into a single braid tucked into the folds of the robe. His face tightened, and he pulled the mask down from the woman's face. She was beautiful. Her thin red lips contrasted against the smooth olive skin of her face. He noticed something behind her ear and cocked his head to the examine a strange tattoo. The shape of it looked almost like a Christian cross, but with a teardrop at the top of it instead of a straight stem.
He puzzled at the symbol, thinking he'd seen it before, perhaps in his studies. A flash of something shiny distracted him from the tattoo, and he turned his attention to the woman's neck where a black leather strap circled to her upper chest.
The Khan eyed the silver necklace with wary curiosity. He reached down and pulled back the robes, revealing an almost immodest portion of the woman's chest. Jani Beg's eyes widened at the mysterious adornment. The silver chain connected through a loop at the top of another piece of silver shaped like a bird's claw. The sharp metal talons clutched a bright red jewel, but it was unlike any gem he'd ever seen. It had been shaped into a cylinder, with strange grooves and holes cut into the sides of the shaft.
The sounds of commotion stirred at the yurt's door. Jani Beg acted quickly, ripping the necklace from his victim’s throat with a click. A second later, two guards burst in. The Khan deftly slipped the woman's robes back over her chest, but his hand still held the strange jewel hidden within the palm.
"My Khan?" one of the guards said, confused. "Are you hurt?"
Jani Beg shook his head. "The others?"
"The other guards?" the man realized. "We found them dead outside your door as we arrived to change shifts."
The Khan nodded. The woman hadn't lied. But who was she? And why was she trying to help him? She wasn't one of his people; that much was certain. She clearly had a vendetta with the Genoese. Perhaps that was all there was to it. A jaded woman, scorned by a man in the city. Such stories, and the liaisons that inspired them, had brought empires to their knees throughout history.
He grinned. Maybe he shouldn't have killed her, but she'd threatened him. And no one threatened the Kahn.
"Go and see if she killed any others," Jani Beg ordered. "I'll be fine, as you can see."
The men obeyed, disappearing through the door to search the immediate area.
Jani Beg again lowered his eyes to the gem in his hand. As he stared at it, the flickering light of the candles and fire pit danced within the crystal, and it seemed to respond with subtle gyrations of its own—almost as if it were alive.
He cocked his head sideways, thinking himself hallucinating. Then he heard the sounds of the guards' footsteps returning. Jani Beg deposited the gem in the folds of his tunic.
"No signs of any others," said the same guard from before as he rushed into the tent.
"Good," Jani Beg said. He turned toward the fire. The gem felt warm in his pocket, as if somehow connected to the heat of the flames. "I have new orders."
The men stiffened to attention, awaiting their mission.
The Khan peered into the flames, yellow and orange tongues that lashed out at the air like ghostly demons from another realm.
"Reposition the engines," Jani Beg said in a distant, even tone. "Fire the bodies over the wall."
1
Prague
Valentin Svoboda’s nerves gnawed at his mind. His heart raced faster than the buildings flying by outside the window as his driver sped down the avenue toward
their destination—a safe house apartment Svoboda kept in the city.
He chewed his fingers as he watched the buildings zoom by, places at which he’d eaten, drunk, cavorted for years without regard. Now, these ordinary façades brought back memories he wished he could taste one more time. Soon, he knew, these streets would be filled with death, rage, and destruction, leaving only shells of their current state.
The driver slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The tires scraped to a stop on the wet pavement, jolting Svoboda forward until the seatbelt halted his momentum. He grunted at the sudden pressure across his lap and chest, but he didn’t complain. Under normal circumstances, on an ordinary day, he would have lashed the driver with a chastising barrage of curses. But today was no ordinary day.
“Wait here, Augustus,” Svoboda ordered. He stepped out of the Rolls Royce’s opulent interior and slammed the door shut with the same lack of care he would have shown a beaten up thirty-year-old Ford.
Raindrops splattered on the wet street around him. The pattering sound against the shell of his car did nothing to distract him. Neither did the spitting precipitation against his skin. His thick black hair was already slicked to one side, so the rain would not affect it. Not that he cared. At that moment, appearance was the last thing on Svoboda’s mind.
He glanced up and down the mostly empty street. A few cars parked along the sidewalk in both directions, a couple in their mid-twenties walking hand in hand immune to the weather, and a man leaning up against the corner of a bar a block away were the only signs of life at this hour.
Svoboda checked his watch for the hundredth time since leaving his palatial mansion on the other side of town.
Several blocks away, the spires of the world famous Tyn Cathedral—also known as The Church of Our Lady before Tyn—towered over the homes, shops, bars, and cafés that stretched along the streets.
Satisfied no one recognized him, Svoboda scurried around the front of the car, his last step splashing in a deep puddle with the last step before he leaped onto the sidewalk. The murky water probably ruined his light brown leather shoes, but that was a concern for another time. He was one of the wealthiest men in Europe, he could always buy another pair of shoes, though these were exceedingly rare. The cobbler only made one pair like these a year, and when he did, the village rang church bells at the completion of each project.
Valentin Svoboda didn’t care much for such sentiments, but he liked to have the rarest of the rare, the most expensive, the most opulent. That said, he kept this low-key apartment near a touristy district of the city to keep a low profile for one of his most prized possessions.
He stopped short of the red door and glanced around one more time. The man leaning against the wall down the street flicked his fingers and a cigarette lighter flamed to life. He touched the yellow-orange tongue to the cigarette, then the flame went out, leaving nothing but a bright orange dot where the tip burned. The man took a long drag, then blew out a plume of smoke, turning his head the other direction.
Svoboda took a deep breath and straightened his untucked, white button-up shirt. The bottom of the garment hung over his potbelly, making his belt invisible to his eyes.
He pressed the call button next to the door and waited for several seconds after the buzzer sounded. When there was no answer, he pushed the button again. The annoying raindrops continued to splatter on and around him. Their inconsistency almost annoyed him more than the irritation of getting wet.
A light switched on inside the apartment. Slight movement followed in the form of a dim silhouette. Then he heard the footsteps draw close to the door. In the momentary pause, he sensed her looking through the peephole before the two locks clicked and the latch turned. The door cracked open and the woman inside peeked out.
“Valentin?” Her voice expressed confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought you were with your wife tonight?”
He didn’t answer immediately, instead pushing the door open so he could step inside. Once through, he immediately shut and locked it.
Svoboda’s mistress stared at him with foggy blue eyes. Her tangled blonde hair told that she’d been in bed, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed that she’d been asleep.
“What’s going on?” she asked, concern mounting in her tone. “You look worried.”
Svoboda didn’t answer right away. He scanned the room, like a jealous lover searching for the guilty party hiding under the bed or in the closet.
“Is anyone else here?” Svoboda asked. The intensity of his question stabbed her, and her confusion deepened.
“What? No. Of course not. You’re the only one, baby.” She slid closer to him, reaching out her hand to touch his shoulder, as if that simple act would reassure him.
He withdrew, twisting his shoulders from her fingertip.
“Not right now, Hana. You need to get out of here.”
Her smooth, tanned forehead wrinkled. “What are you talking about? It’s two in the morning.” She tried to draw near him again, a seductive look in her eyes.
He put up his hands and grabbed her by the waist, stopping her inches from him. “You don’t understand, and I can’t tell you everything. Something bad is about to happen. I can’t stop it. No one can.”
“Valentin, calm down. This is me you’re talking to. What’s going on? What do you mean, something bad is about to happen? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Valentin Svoboda was the founder of Penetech, one of the most powerful computer supply companies in the world. Penetech was worth billions and constantly faced scrutiny from the public regarding various manufacturing practices. But he’d never come under fire for anything illegal under any international laws, merely ethical questions and issues with quality control.
“No. I’m fine, but you are not safe, and you need to leave the city immediately.”
“Leave? Why would I leave? Are you…breaking up with me? Did your wife find out about us?” There was an odd sense of hope in her voice, as if the truth being wrought would somehow give her what she wanted—a public relationship with the billionaire.
“No, nothing like that.”
Hana suddenly looked hurt. Her lower lip jutted out as she pouted. “Then why do I have to go? And where am I going?”
“You can go to my chalet in the mountains. It should be safe there until things blow over.” A lie bubbled on the surface of his words, but she didn’t detect it.
“I don’t understand. Your wife doesn’t know. You’re not leaving me. What is this bad thing that’s about to happen?”
His round face hardened and flushed red with frustration. “I wish I could tell you. I really do, but I can’t. In fact, I’m taking a huge risk even coming here to warn you.”
“Warn me of what, Vally?” She stepped close, and her left hand wandered up to his right.
Her scent wafted into his nostrils, the smell of roses and vanilla from the soap he knew she used in the shower. She was beautiful, even after being awakened at such a ridiculous hour. Wearing only a pair of black panties and a tank top, his carnal instincts pulled strings that could have distracted the most pious man.
Survival, however, was paramount.
He sighed, again wishing things could return to the past, even days ago when he was last in this apartment. He longed for things to be different, for he and his unfaithful, unbearable wife to be divorced, or at the very least, separated. He knew that wasn’t possible. Well, it was, but not for the price he’d have to pay financially. Give up half of everything? Not a chance. And then there was the issue of how they would view things, which side they would take. His ambitious wife might be more pliable than he, which would make Valentin expendable.
It was they who’d given him the signal, the warning that only a select few around the world would receive. He knew the second he saw the coded message that things had been set in motion. At first, he couldn’t believe it. His father had told him that one day he may receive a call, and when he did, they would begin making prepa
rations to head for a rendezvous point.
The younger version of Valentin wondered at his father’s strange comments, and only when the older Svoboda passed did Valentin learn the truth.
The details were laid out in the old man’s will, and not even the attorneys were permitted to see them.
“I need you to trust me.” Valentin grabbed Hana’s shoulders and squeezed. He stared deep into her eyes. “If you don’t leave, you will die. Do you understand? They will kill you.”
“Who are they?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“Nothing,” he admitted. “I have done nothing. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. Not yet. Soon,” he lied. Valentin had no way of knowing if he would ever see her again, if sending her off to his corporate-owned chalet would even be enough.
It would, he thought, be better than leaving her here in the city. The cities would be the first to descend into chaos. Eventually, the destruction would seep into the countryside and the suburbs, leaving death in its wake. Billions would die, he knew. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. All he could do was protect himself and his family. He cared for his children, both a boy and a girl nearing their teenage years. His wife, on the other hand, could fall off a cliff. He should be so lucky. Maybe then, they would allow him to bring Hana as a substitute.
He doubted that. They had rules, strict guidelines that never wavered. It was a fool’s hope to think such things.
“When? When will I see you? Will you tell me then? How long do I have to stay up there?”
“Not long. I promise. It will all be over soon, then we can be together again.” He pulled her close and kissed her wetly. It probably would have disgusted most women, but she wasn’t exactly discerning—except for financial purposes.
He pulled back and nodded at her bedroom. “Get your things. Enough clothes for a week or two. You can wash your things in the laundry there. And there is enough food in the pantry to last a month.”
The Milestone Protocol Page 2
