The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  THE

  CELTIC KEY

  A Time Travel Series, Book 3

  BARBARA BEST

  THE CELTIC KEY

  A Time Travel Series, Book 3

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2018 by Barbara Best

  Published: November 8, 2018

  United States of America

  This book is dedicated to my sweet grandchildren, Sophia (she’s my Sophie) and Bryce, whom I love with all my heart.

  * * * * *

  Special recognition to Gloria Davis.

  The Celtic Key: A Time Travel Series, Book 3, is not, nor is it intended to be a historical reference. This is a work of fiction and although many of the people and places did exist and the facts and dates may represent a particular time in American history, they are left to the author’s interpretation only and embellished or altered to conform to the author’s story line. Any resemblance to actual living persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Barbara Best. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. If you enjoyed this ebook, please return to the place of purchase for more works by this author. Thank you for your support. Barbara Best can be contacted through her website at www.BarbaraBestBooks.com

  Chapter 1

  CHRISTIAAN BARNARD MEMORIAL, 2013

  Benjamin Downing distractedly runs his fingers through his hair. Beads of sweat pop up like tiny blisters on his temples as he focuses a pinpoint stare on his wife. Sophie Downing sprints in a half run, half walk down a long, busy corridor.

  “Keep goin’ baby,” Ben mouths through clenched teeth. His deep-set eyes, glassy and unblinking, absorb every detail of her body. It burns a permanent image into his brain. She moves with the grace of a gazelle, her shiny blonde curls bouncing along her back with each urgent step, her arms and legs cooperating and in sync. He remembers the outfit from a day of shopping and her big hug when he said the color matched her pretty gray eyes.

  When Sophie reaches the end of the hallway, she hesitates. Glancing over one shoulder at him, her face is ablaze with anxiety. She puts her fingertips to her pursed lips and blows a kiss before hastily turning the corner, out of sight.

  Ben’s stiff smile fades to a thin line. He checks the sweeping minute hand on his watch. With immense control, he waits a few more agonizing seconds to give Sophie a head start. It would be just like her to change her mind and double back. He listens closely for any sound of interference outside the normal beeps, squeaks, and rattles of hospital activity. Exhaling through his nose, he tries to slow his heart. It is beating against his ribs, an echo of muscle pounding fury as hot as the African sun.

  The drive to Christiaan Barnard Memorial Hospital in the hub of Cape Town, South Africa, was intense. Sophie had clung to him as if he were a lifeline in a stormy sea. He felt her heated essence and smelled the damp flowery scent of her shampoo when she nestled her head in the contour of his arm. During their final moments, she begged him to go with her, to escape and begin anew.

  Ben’s love swells at the notion. The temptation to grab Sophie’s hand and flee was overwhelming. But he stood his ground, pushing her roughly, insisting she go in sharp words that left no room for debate.

  Guilt rides him like a zealous champion of lost causes. This is all his fault. His torturous self-blame mired in shame hovers in a polluted cloud so thick it makes him gag. Compulsive gambling and massive debt are the reasons for their sorry plight. The collective isolation his addiction condemned them to, the proscribed enigma that robbed them of their happy existence in Savannah is unforgivable.

  Sophie and Ben’s time with the Salva Society was on shaky ground from the get-go. Sophie said she would do anything to save his worthless neck, but her decision to blindly comply did not hold. He should have known his wife’s type-A personality would never relinquish her freedom to a life of luxury, bound by conditions and held captive on a volcanic rock in the middle of the Atlantic. She saw beyond the false facade, calling Salva’s Gough Island “a compound, no better than a bloody prison.”

  Now, another life hangs in the balance. A new life that is not part of the plan and a real game changer in his book. Impossible yet true, Sophie is pregnant. It is equally true he would never bring a child into Salva’s toxic society — into the supernatural intrigue of an age-old faction that seeks to change the course of history.

  When he told them Sophie had agreed to an abortion, they were all over it. Salva is eager to dispose of “this unfortunate complication” and any other obstacle that stands in their way.

  Choking on a clotted lump of bitter regret, Ben takes a deep, saturating breath. He squares his shoulders and snarls, “It’s go time. Let’s do this thing.”

  With a spontaneous response to an internal command, he transforms as a jolt of adrenaline fuels his body. The sensation is familiar, practiced. His vision narrows, his phony Southern warmth evaporates, and his features become cynical and detached. He draws on a corrupt inner strength and developed keenness from a secret past left dead and buried in the before-Sophie time.

  The butt of a loaded, subcompact, nine-millimeter Italian-made Beretta is hidden under his jacket in the waistband of his slacks. The steel feels icy through his shirt and as rock hard as his resolve. He had stolen the weapon from a crew member’s locker during their ocean crossing from Gough Island to the African continent. There was little chance the incident would be reported, since Salva prohibits possession of firearms.

  At a brisk pace, heading back in the direction from which he and Sophie had come, Ben’s hands are steadier than he thought possible. His bearing grows cool and calculating. His senses ignite with intention, and his legs propel him forward as if he is floating on air. He is ready.

  With unyielding dexterity and expert training in firearms, Ben envisions his weapon as an extension of himself. Curling his finger round the trigger, he skirts the last corner, darting out in plain view. As expected, the enemy is charging his way.

  Ben smiles grimly, having his feet planted firmly and the Salva minions directly in his sights. With the advantage for accuracy closing in, he spits a profane oath and shouts, “I’ve got a gun!”

  Without hesitation, he fires twice into a crowded hallway, praying silently he is able to hit his mark without harming innocent bystanders. The explosion creases the atmosphere with a loud, reverberating bang, BANG!

  In front, his two enraged Salva targets tell him on contact he is successful. Fierce and murderous facial expressions morph into total shock as people jerk and recoil in all directions to dodge the deadly force. The pandemonium that ensues is so quick and Ben’s focus so strong, his brain can only assimilate the aftermath.

  On impact, Salva businessman Victor Cruz expelled one harsh whistling wheeze as the kinetic energy of the first bullet ripped the air from his lungs. The direct hit slammed him backward, yet he managed to fling his body toward the wall in a futile attempt at self-preservation. Clawing wildly at a gaping wound to his chest that was spurting pure red under the hospital’s fluorescent lights, Victor lunged again. A small band of cowering onlookers instinctively scattered. The man’s heart seized up in mid-air, sending splayed-out arms and legs into the side of an empty gurney with a horrible crash.

  Instantaneously, Salva’s nurse practitioner Roz Gomez, whom they assigned to be present during Sophie’s abortion, dropped in place with a sickening thud. Her tortoise-shell glasses clung to a colorless face, frozen in a stupefied grimace. Fragments of bone mixed with hair and brain mat
ter launched outward when the path of his second bullet efficiently struck the middle of her forehead. Her glossed-over eyes could see, but did not recognize death.

  A tall security guard with navy blue and gold CBM patches sewn on his uniform had been following Roz a little too closely. Bright eyes in an ebony face violently spiked with astonishment as he spun sideways. Grabbing his right shoulder, he slumped to his knees.

  Ben breathes split-second relief when his mind clears. The guard is alive and no one else is hurt. Both Salva members are twisted into hideous positions. It is certain neither felt their collision with the hospital’s pristine terrazzo floor.

  Screams and startled cries for help split the air. Alarm and mobbish outrage buzzes around him like a swarm of angry killer bees. Someone rams Ben in the back with the ambition of a football defensive tackle and takes him down with blunt ferocity. More desperate and petrified souls pile on top. Each struggling to be a hero, they wrench the arm that holds his weapon.

  He is ready for that too. In the rush of chaos and with the last bit of prodigious courage he can muster, Ben manages to draw his hand up under his torso to his chin. He squeezes the trigger, one last time, on the device that links him to cold-blooded murder. Simple and painless, he is mildly surprised at his own end. He was dead, anyway.

  Chapter 2

  UNITED STATES CONSULATE

  Masegi Sesay, native to the region and working under one of three United States Consulates in South Africa, recognizes her immediately by the tilt of her head and purposeful stride. The sight of Sophia Eden-Downing moves him. Her body has miraculously transformed into that of a grown woman. She is aesthetically pleasing, appealing to him both emotionally and physically. Masegi catches her panicked state in the crinkled lines on her forehead. Her breath comes in shallow puffs when they meet. Two armed security guards with stony expressions are in pursuit.

  “Quiet, Sophia,” Masegi hisses. He runs his badge over the security pad, and shoves the young woman into his private office.

  “Ouch,” Sophie squawks. Sliding her Gucci sunglasses up into her hair, she rubs the place where her arm had been manhandled.

  In the doorway, Masegi calmly addresses the men. They are members of the embassy security force, trained to screen visitors and on counter-terrorism. He smiles and draws himself up to his full height, “We are fine. No worries.” A stern look wards off any questions.

  The security team, eyes still flickering intent, finally nod their satisfaction. With shoulders slumped, they let go of their excitement and recede to their original posts to continue their typically monotonous day.

  “Segi,” Sophie pants relief when they are alone. She finds it natural to use the family’s endearing pet name for the attaché. “God, it’s good to see you.”

  Her first impulse is to throw her arms around Segi’s neck like she did on their visits when she was a little girl. She recalls the many times she crawled up on his knee to search for a special surprise he always kept in his shirt pocket. Segi would often delight his Blommie Kabouter with some whimsical trinket of African origin that came with an enchanting story. Once occupied, Sophie played happily while Segi and her father conversed on political and military topics of South Africa’s provinces. Major Eden was an observer to foreign armies.

  “What are you doing here?” Masegi demands. Closing the door, he crosses the room to pull open the top drawer of a Scandinavian-style desk.

  A strained mouth over a clamped jaw mars Masegi’s face. It is vacant of the compassion and masculine gentleness that makes him attractive and approachable. Barring his herculean frame, Masegi Sesay is often compared to their country’s patriot, his close friend Nelson Mandela. Some say they can see it in the eyes. Others are sure it is obvious in certain mannerisms. Sophie thinks somewhere in the African gene pool traced to the origin of the human species Segi and the apartheid freedom fighter are related.

  “You know, they are looking for you,” Masegi says with a piercing glance.

  “Ha-who?” Sophie stammers. Her attention flits to noise coming from outside where unpredictable danger lurks. Through cracked windows, she can hear the staccato bursts of a jackhammer that matches the pulse behind her ear. It is suddenly hot. She runs a knuckle along her forehead that is slick with moisture. Remembering an elastic scrunchie around her wrist, she twists her hair in an unkempt knot, binding it off her neck.

  “Who?” Masegi repeats in utter incredulity. “Salva, who do you think?”

  Although his English is polished to perfection, Masegi’s accent reveals Australian influence and his strong South African roots. Born in Kakamas, he spent his early years with people of the northern cape. He was raised in a small town on the banks of the majestic Orange River, named for its reddish-brown clay the Khoi women once used to adorn their faces. The region is also known for the most compelling rock art on earth, dating back a hundred thousand years.

  Driven to poverty by a collapsed economy and failing business, Masegi’s father knew he must search for work elsewhere. From their native village set in an undulating countryside dotted with wild fig and quiver trees, they moved to Cape Town. It was there that his family prospered. Masegi received a private education of the privileged and was advanced to university. He studied abroad in the United States at the prestigious Georgetown University where he not only earned his master’s degree, but also applied for United States citizenship.

  Tucking a manila envelope inside his coat and shoving a ring of keys into his trouser pocket, Masegi crosses to a series of black and white framed photos mounted on one wall. They were autographed by the great photojournalist Alf Kumalo, known as the chronicler of life under apartheid when the country was aflame with violence. Behind the center picture, a safe is carefully concealed from view.

  Masegi pauses and rubs the top of his head in a worried gesture before tackling an intricate combination he knows by heart. He continues, “What do you have to do with them, huh?”

  “Everything.” Sophie gulps air to settle her nerves. When Segi turns to her, her gaze falls on the angle of his red striped tie that is twisted sideways. “I can’t believe you recognized me.”

  Masegi pats his upper and lower pockets. When he is certain he has what he needs, “This way.”

  They go through a side door and travel down a poorly lit hallway.

  Masegi considers Sophia’s comment. “How could I not know you, little one? Just a tad older, and a little heavier, I think.”

  “Gee, thanks!”

  Now grinning, Segi’s teeth flash white in an ageless face, sprinkled with freckles across high cheekbones and a handsome nose. His graying hair is cropped short, yet still shaggy like a bad clip-job on a shorn sheep. Exactly like Sophie remembers.

  “Come, come.” Tension shows in the knotted muscles that strain seams near Masegi’s shoulders and upper back.

  His large hand covers Sophie’s, making her feel small like a child as she tries to keep up. “Where are we going?” Sophie’s heart is doing an erratic trot in her chest. It is similar to the patchy clatter coming through vents that run parallel in the ceiling overhead. She looks up.

  “Generator. We’re without power,” Masegi whispers, as they shoot through a steel door and descend a stifling stairwell that creaks with their weight. Rusted bolts are separated in places from the wall.

  “More stairs,” Sophie groans, but at least she is going down this time. Her escape from the hospital rushes in. She is terrified for Ben and with each miserable second her angst mounts. An accusing voice berates her decision to leave him behind. How could she? Each step-fall resounds as Segi yanks her along.

  “Where are we going? Hey, take it easy,” Sophie yelps. She grabs the sticky rail to keep from tripping when her shoe catches on a corroded iron strip that had come loose. A few more steps and they reach the bottom.

  “Shush now!” Masegi cracks a heavy exit door to peer out.

  Sophie smells hot rubber, exhaust, and motor oil. She realizes the stairs lead to an un
derground garage.

  They race along the rows of parked cars to a slot where “Reserved” is painted on concrete in bright yellow. She hits her elbow on the metal jam as she is pushed inside a sporty coupe and barely has time to pull in her feet before the door slams shut. Segi circles round and hops into the driver’s seat. His body easily overwhelms the space. His car with sleek lines designed for speed and efficiency is affixed with a government plate.

  Masegi puts on his sunglasses, rams the automatic transmission into reverse, and squeals out of his parking space. The sound echoes in the silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie says. She has no other words.

  “Sorry?” Masegi scoffs. “Get down.” The car spins through the garage’s narrow exit and makes a razor turn.

  Doubled over with her head between her knees, Sophie pitches into the dash storage compartment at a final checkpoint. Segi brakes, swipes his card, and they clear the main gate onto a busy thoroughfare.

  “I think we are okay, for now.” Masegi’s complexion is shiny and his brow is lightly beaded with sweat. He watches his rear and side-view mirrors closely.

  “I have an explanation.” At Segi’s grunt, Sophie abandons a series of ready excuses and snaps her seat belt in place. She scans the street ahead, “Seriously, where are we going?” The controlling experience with Ben and Salva causes fresh panic to seize her. She had gone to Segi for help, but to be whisked away again without a valid reason is no better. In fact, it is scaring the hell out of her.

  “Someplace where it’s safe.” Masegi gives Sophia a considering sweep. “You must trust me, little one,” he says gently, “Here, wipe your face.” He offers a pressed white handkerchief from his coat pocket and grips the wheel again.

  Noticing she has a death hold on her purse, Sophie unwinds her fingers and makes a concerted effort to calm down. She takes Segi’s hankie and flips the visor. In the brightly lit mirror a flushed face with gray, fearful eyes trimmed with moist lashes looks back at her. She brushes tendrils of hair stuck to her cheeks and blots the dampness away. This cannot be good for the baby.