He felt sweat forming on his forehead as his plan hit its first literal and figurative snag. He gently tugged on one end of the chain, slowly pulling it through the small pocket that lay partially hidden under the master’s sheet, and was rewarded with the clasp. He squeezed the tiny device and unhooked the two ends.
His master snorted and began to roll toward him.
Dietrich panicked and yanked the now divided chain just as his master rolled completely over, now facing him.
But he had the key in his hand.
He quietly turned, the blade hidden behind his back, and clasped the other key and its chain from the nightstand. He stepped back as his master’s breathing readjusted with several snorts, then gently closed the curtain. Stuffing the cabinet key into his pocket, he firmly held the basement key in his left hand, the dagger in his other, hidden away in a deep pocket in his robe.
He inched his way from the bed, then at the door, prepared himself for looking purposeful again.
He was so tired now, the fear that had been fueling him no longer able to keep up, that he could feel himself fading. Too much had happened, and he had given himself no time to recover.
Only ten minutes more, if that!
He opened the door, stepped out into the hall, then closed the door silently behind him. A quick glance and a wipe of his forehead, and he was walking toward the basement, key in hand. The door wasn’t far, and he reached it in moments, encountering no one.
The key slid in the lock, the mechanism creaked gently and the door unlocked. As he pushed it open he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.
He nearly urinated on the spot.
He turned his head and found a robed figure behind him.
“Good morning,” he whispered, his voice wavering in fright. “You startled me,” he said, placing his hand on his chest. “I didn’t realize anyone was up.”
“What are you doing?” asked the man, his voice low but not the whisper Dietrich would have preferred.
“Shh,” admonished Dietrich, holding a finger to his lips. “We don’t want to wake the master.” He held up the key to the basement. “My master and I were in the basement earlier and he lit the room with the black powder. I have to go replenish it before he wakes up, as I’m certain he will want to check on the item immediately.” Dietrich looked at the hand still on his shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me? I’d like to get this done so I can go to bed. Tomorrow I become a full apprentice, and do not want to be tired.”
At the mention of becoming an apprentice the hand darted away from the shoulder. Though an apprentice had little power, especially early on, the power within the organization they would command after their master’s death was only rivaled by that of The Founder.
The man disappeared into the shadows, saying nothing.
Dietrich pushed the door open, took a lantern from the wall, and entered the basement, closing the door behind him. When he reached the stone floor below he paused for a moment, leaning on a table as he caught his breath and tried to steady his shaking hands.
He eyed the cabinet at the far end of the room, but resisted. If someone were to check on him, he would need to be seen doing his job. He retrieved a small barrel of the black powder and scooped a generous amount out, then poured it through a funnel as he let it fill the tiny groove carved around the room, carefully filling the side channels leading to the various torches to be lit.
He did the job a little quicker and a little sloppier than he normally would, this merely his cover should someone come down, and only his master would know if it wasn’t up to his usual standards.
Finished, he rushed toward the cabinet and slid aside the lock cover. He pushed the key in the hole and turned, swinging open the door. Reaching inside he grasped the Catalyst and pulled it out, placing it on the nearby table. He locked the cabinet again, stuffed the key in his pocket, then looked about the room for something to hide the cube in. It wasn’t large, perhaps from his wrist to his elbow in length, width and height, and it wasn’t heavy beyond feeling solid and substantial.
But it wouldn’t fit under a robe without an obvious bulge impossible to explain.
His eyes travelled the room and came to rest on the powder barrel. He rushed over, tipped it and emptied the black powder into a corner. Then, prying off the top, he placed the Catalyst inside, the fit nearly perfect, then put the top back on, hiding it from sight.
Now he merely needed to act as if it were empty.
He was about to climb the steps when he had one final idea. It was bold, crazy, and potentially deadly. If there were any delay on his part whatsoever, he might die.
Again, something he could live with.
Laura Palmer’s Private Jet, Over the Atlantic Ocean
“Sorry, BD, no luck. We just don’t have the intel feeds we need here to do it, and we can’t ask the Colonel.”
Dawson was frustrated, but he knew it wasn’t Atlas’ fault. They were running this op off the books, privately financing it with their own savings, and calling in every favor they could. The plane and rental in Richmond were donated by friends, the first flight to Geneva donated by a corporate honcho whose daughter they had rescued years earlier from Yemen.
And this flight, donated by Professor Palmer. He wasn’t too proud to accept funding from someone who was filthy rich. He had read her dossier when she had been first identified during the Triarii incident, and knew her late brother had left her over one hundred million when he died. He had often wondered what he would do if he were to suddenly find himself rich. It was hard to think of doing anything beyond The Unit. He knew eventually he’d be too old for it, but then he figured he’d still be involved, probably training the new recruits, or becoming one of those “go to” guys like Thor had become.
If you need me, I’ll be there.
The Unit was his life and he didn’t want it any other way. Which was why he never bought lottery tickets. There was too much of a risk he might win. And it was also why he was determined to avenge Stucco’s death. This was his family.
And you don’t mess with my family.
Spock and his team had already landed in Geneva and were arranging quarters and supplies. He and Red, along with Niner and Jimmy, as well as the two professors, would be arriving within a few hours, but they didn’t have enough intel. He had hoped the cellphone they had retrieved from Sylvia’s abductor in the church might have led to something, but it had come up empty due to a lack of resources. The briefcases and wallets retrieved by Spock’s team had proven dead ends, the wallets merely filled with cash and fake ID’s, the briefcases holding weapons and clothing, the only thing of value were that their clothes were made in Italy.
“Time to call in another favor.”
Dawson hung up and dialed a number he had been given only for emergencies. A number he had never thought he’d have to call.
The CIA makes me nervous.
Namale, Fiji
CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane sat in a very feng shui chair, his back to the wall, all the entrances and exits visible, the lighting subdued due to the unscrewed bulb in the light hanging from the ceiling. It had been a fabulous dinner with equally fabulous company. The young lady that had sat across from him as they had their Kobe beef steak had shifted to the chair beside him, one hand on her Chalk Hill chardonnay, the other on his leg, squeezing life into an adjacent appendage.
He sipped his Glen Breton Rare, a scotch that was hard to find but worth the effort. All of his regular haunts across the world had a case stored away in the event he might show up. He felt the tingling numbness begin to take over, the warmth spreading through his body with each sip.
He leaned back and sighed, pulling Talei’s chair a little closer then putting his arm around her. He was about to plant a kiss on her that he knew would lead to something even better than a fine scotch, when his phone vibrated.
“Just a second, darling,” he said as he fished the phone from his pocket. He answered, not recognizing the number. �
�Go ahead.”
“Hi, it’s me,” said a voice Kane didn’t recognize.
“That’s nice, this is me too.”
“You had that same damned sense of humor every time you got a finger or two of scotch into you after training.”
Kane smiled, the voice now clearly recognizable as his old Sergeant Major and Delta buddy Burt “Big Dog” Dawson.
“Hey! What can I do for you old buddy?”
“I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need a cyber-asset.”
“I know just the man for the job. I’ll have him contact you shortly.”
“Thanks, my friend. Now make that call before you take another drink.”
“You know me so well.”
Kane ended the call then fired a message through his phone to an untraceable relay, the encoding on his text message directing it to the correct recipient more securely than any other method available to him in Fiji.
The message sent, he cleared the phone of any record of the message or call, then pocketed it, turning back to Talei.
“Now, where were we?” he asked, his mischievous smile awarded by a heart quickening kiss from a woman so gorgeous, she’d piss off super models.
The perfect distraction for trying to forget New Orleans.
Chris Leroux Residence, Fairfax Towers, Falls Church, Virginia
CIA Analyst Chris Leroux sat on his couch, sipping a Diet Coke and grasping at air, the bag of Cheetos empty.
“I ate the whole thing?” he asked aloud, examining the bag. He turned to scold his girlfriend Sherrie for allowing him to eat the entire bag when he remembered she wasn’t here. She was off on some op in God knows where. She was an agent, he was an analyst, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. At least in that there was no way in hell he wanted to be an agent. He knew the gonads for that belonged to her.
Which was totally cool with him.
She was like his own personal Lara Croft, a superhero off fighting for duty and honor, then the best damned girlfriend a guy could ask for when back home.
Damn, you’re hopeless.
He knew he was damned lucky. Until he had met her he was chronically shy. Still was. He was on his way up at the agency, at least in the analyst pool since the Brass Monkey incident he had figured out for them, and he had the ear of the Director now. But all of his current confidence he owed to Sherrie.
God I miss you!
His phone vibrated on the table, the dull rumble causing him to nearly shit his pants.
Definitely not agent material.
He checked the message and jumped from the couch, turning off the TV and calling his escort team that had been assigned for security purposes, his current assignment considered too important and too risky for him to be left unguarded.
“We’re leaving in five.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dylan Kane had been his friend since high school. Kane had gone army then CIA, Leroux had gone academic then CIA. Neither had known the other had ended up at the agency until a chance encounter that had rekindled their friendship.
Kane had saved his life, had given him the courage to go after Sherrie, and had been a good, albeit infrequent, friend.
And he’d do anything for him.
Köln, Germany
1472 AD
Dietrich pushed open the basement door and stepped into the hallway, closing it behind him. The barrel was tucked under his arm as he tried to make it seem as light as he could. He returned the lantern to the wall, then locked the door, stuffing the key back in his pocket. He turned and the robed figure was again there.
“What is that?”
Dietrich looked at the barrel.
“What, this? It’s an empty powder barrel. I need to put it out with the others so they can get refilled when our supplier gets here in two days.”
“Let me see it,” said the man, his voice at least a whisper this time.
“Of course,” said Dietrich, his hand still in his pocket from depositing the key. He gripped the dagger handle, shifting his body to the left to transfer the barrel to the man’s outstretched hands, then swiftly pulled the dagger and plunged it into the man’s belly.
He dropped with a groan that echoed through the halls, his body sliding off the now bloodied dagger.
There was no time to waste as the shadows seemed to be moving.
He rushed down the hall, away from the basement door and toward the front of the house. He passed the master’s room, the door still closed. He saw a hand reach out from the shadows but he darted to the left, avoiding it, the dagger still in his hand, the barrel uncomfortable under his arm.
He reached the front door and turned the latch then pushed open the door. A hand grabbed his left shoulder and he spun, driving the dagger between the man’s ribs and into his heart. He dropped to the ground in a pile of moaning flesh as his blood spurted out over his robes and the floor.
“Alarm!” yelled a voice from deep within the house, and immediately he could hear the pounding of footsteps.
He ran down the steps, out the front gate, and raced up the hill toward Heike’s house. They deserved to know what had happened to their daughter, and he was determined to tell them should he be successful. Footfalls echoed through the dark streets behind him, his exhaustion and the barrel slowing him down. He knew he wouldn’t make it, the guards undoubtedly well rested and strong.
As if to prove his thoughts, he was suddenly overtaken by several of them who blocked his path, their arms outstretched, the ghostly figures of the baggy robes terrifying in the moonlight. He dodged to the right but it was no use. A glance over his shoulder showed more coming. To the left was the ledge Heike had been thrown over, to the right the wall of a house. He made for the ledge, but was blocked, forcing him to retreat to the house.
He sensed a shadow to his left and spun to see the imposing figure of his master standing before him, how he had managed to get there so fast Dietrich did not know.
“What are you doing, Dietrich?”
The voice was again emotionless, barely questioning, as if he already knew the answers to the questions he was about to ask, having already read his subject’s mind.
“I’m just disposing of the empty barrel, my master,” he gasped, stunned he had been able to form the words.
“Then why do you run?”
Dietrich slipped the dagger into his right pocket and shifted the barrel from his left to his right arm, shaking out the left arm and playing for time.
“I’m sorry, master, but somebody grabbed me and I defended myself. I forgot you had extra guards, and in my horror, I stabbed one. Then more came, and I panicked. I thought they would seek revenge before I could explain myself, so I ran.”
He pushed away from the wall several feet as his breath slowly steadied. The group still surrounded him, his master at an even height with him as he was several feet farther down the road, his imposing stature making the difference.
Dietrich kept his side to him, the barrel under his right arm, then flashed him a smile he hoped would disarm the man.
“I don’t believe you,” said his master. “I believe you were more affected by the death of the girl than you admitted to, and that your misguided emotions are leading you astray.”
“No, master, I would never let my emotions affect my judgment.”
“And yet again, I don’t believe you.”
His master flicked his wrist, and the robed figures surrounding him began to advance.
Dietrich swung his body to the right, grasping either end of the barrel in his hands, then swung back, pivoting his entire body to the left, releasing the barrel at the apex of the swing. The advancing robes stopped as all heads followed the barrel as it flew over their heads. Dietrich held his breath, praying his throw was long enough, but his heart sank as the barrel fell short, hitting the stone wall and bouncing back.
“Pathetic,” said his master as he turned back toward Dietrich. But Dietrich smiled and watched as
the barrel began to roll down the steep road, the cobblestones unforgiving, their firm surface causing the barrel to bounce higher and higher as it gained speed and caught on the various imperfections in the road.
“Get it!” yelled his master as the robed figures scrambled after the barrel, now bouncing as high as a man.
Dietrich took the opportunity to turn toward Heike’s home but he felt an iron grip on his left arm, dragging him down the road. He reached for the blade in his pocket with his free hand and swung it toward his master, but it was easily intercepted, his wrist caught by the left hand of his captor.
Who then squeezed.
The pain was unbelievable, his grip like the jaws of a lion. Within seconds the blade clattered to the pavement as his master continued to run down the road, undeterred. As they came around a bend to the right, Dietrich laughed as the barrel bounced over the wall on the left and hit the side of a building, falling out of sight and into the roaring river below.
“No!” screamed the master, the sound unbelievable, inhuman. Dietrich felt the grip on his arm loosen and he prepared himself to break away, but instead the hand quickly let go and gripped his neck. He felt his entire body lift off the ground as he was carried toward the precipice he had last seen his beloved from. The grip was crushing and he couldn’t breathe. He clawed at his master’s hands but it was no use.
He felt his legs hit the waist high wall as his master held him out over the river below.
“You will pay for eternity for what you have done,” growled the man, his eyes flaring in the moonlight as if a demon.
The grip loosened and Dietrich felt air surge into his lungs as he plunged to the river below.
But he didn’t care.
He smiled as his mind filled with thoughts of Heike, and how they would be together soon, the bliss he felt enough for him to ignore the harsh shock of cold that enveloped him, then the snapping of his back on a rock below.
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 13
