by Brett King
Chapter Seven
Aspen
5:29 P.M.
Brynstone stood near the oversized globe, his face registering no emotion, as the Saudi ambassador worked into a controlled rage. Zaki planted both hands on his desk.
“You must speak, Mr. Robie. Tell me how you discovered my mummy chamber.”
In truth, Brynstone was a Special Collection Service agent who did this kind of thing for a living. No chance he’d give that answer. Stretching his neck, he kept it vague.
“The prophet showed me the way. Took me a while to figure it out.” He motioned with his head. “At first, I looked for the answer in your Delphic-oracle painting.”
“A gift from your President Armstrong. I keep it for the occasions when he visits Aspen. After tonight, it goes in the garbage.”
Tareef walked past the terrarium and spoke to Zaki in Arabic. “This man claims to have information. Perhaps it is a trick.”
Brynstone feigned a blank look, as if he couldn’t understand their conversation.
“Still, I believe him,” Zaki said. “I see it in his eyes. However, I do not think he will tell us without encouragement. Resolve this situation for me. Imad will assist you. Search him. Then employ your ‘sharing methods.’ Do whatever is necessary to make him talk.”
“And if he dies without sharing?”
“Then let his wisdom die with him. Do not allow the American agents to see your work.”
Brynstone had heard enough. He ripped the submachine gun from Tareef, then kicked the man’s chest. The guard smashed into the globe. Ducking behind his desk, Zaki pressed a button, triggering an alarm.
The weapon in Brynstone’s hands gave him an idea. He opened fire with the Skorpion submachine gun, unloading the twenty-round magazine. The 7.65 millimeter slugs blasted the terrarium glass. Scorpions clambered out of their home and poured into the library. The nimble creatures streamed over Tareef’s body, plunging stingers into his flesh. Rolling onto his knees, the guard slapped at his face. Zaki scurried onto his desk, not noticing a scorpion on his back. The three-inch arachnid darted across his cheek before clutching Zaki’s nose. The scorpion’s stinger curled into striking position. Eyes bulging, Zaki held still, paralyzed by fear.
“Get it off,” he whispered.
Darting closer, Brynstone slammed the Skorpion’s wire butt at Zaki’s face. There was a sharp crack as he thumped the scorpion from Zaki’s nose.
“Problem solved,” Brynstone said.
Zaki collapsed on top of his desk, cursing in Arabic as he held his broken nose. He reached for the prayingmantis sculpture. He slapped the claws, triggering the terrarium to close the passageway. Six men burst into the room. With blood streaming from his nose, Zaki demanded, “Kill him.”
In a hail of gunfire, Brynstone dove into the chamber before the terrarium moved into place, shutting off the library. A wave of scorpions darted beneath the door. He grabbed his coat and backpack, then raced toward the empty booth.
From the library, Zaki separated the mantis claws. The terrarium opened an inch, then jammed. He screamed at his guards, “Go through the terrarium.”
Scorpions greeted the two men as they crawled into the tank. Pulling back, they opened fire inside the Assembly of the Dead, shattering glass and blasting mummies.
“Stop your fire,” Zaki screamed, waving his hands. “You’ll ruin my collection.”
Brynstone rushed down the spiral staircase. He didn’t know where it would lead, but he had no other option. Dropping from above, scorpions rained around him like hailstones. Wiping one from his hair, he checked his belt pack. The cista mystica hadn’t fallen out.
On the bottom step, his boot crunched a dazed scorpion. Opening the door, he bolted into the chill air. He had stashed cross-country skis on the other side of the main residence, but he saw a faster way out. Lined with pine trees, a winding road led to the heliport, a quarter mile from the mansion. He sprinted up the foothill, feeling the punishing effects of thin air at this altitude. Despite snowfall from the fading blizzard, the road was dry. Underground grids circulated heat beneath the concrete, melting snowflakes the second they hit.
Time was running out.
A veneer of fresh snow covered the half bubble that housed the helicopter, making the heliport look like an enormous igloo. He swiped Cregger’s card through the reader posted on a metal box. The bubble shuddered, then parted from the center, each side retracting in an opposite direction. Snow slid off and toppled around the heliport.
From down the hill, snowmobiles roared to life from the mansion’s auto bay. Brynstone stepped inside the retractable bubble, then climbed into Zaki’s helicopter. He fired up the engine.
State Department agents and Zaki’s men raced on snowmobiles. Everyone was taking shots at the Agusta Bell. Having escaped the mummy chamber, State agent Steve Cregger seemed to have a different plan. As the helicopter was getting lift, he gunned the sled’s Polaris engine up the hill. His snowmobile hurtled beneath the copter as it turned into the wind.
Bursting through whirling snow, Cregger jumped off the airborne machine. Brynstone didn’t think he could make it. Wrong. It seemed personal for this guy. Cregger wrapped his arms around the Bell’s landing skids, then tried to swing his legs around the cross tube.
Sorry, buddy, Brynstone thought. You’re not hitching a ride.
Lifting at an angled incline, he directed the copter over pine trees. Cregger struggled for a better hold on the cross tube. Brynstone dipped the Agusta Bell, letting branches rip at the agent’s legs, peeling him off the skids. Cregger brought out his handgun. He squeezed off two shots before dropping into a cushion of forest.
Brynstone climbed to a high hover, but didn’t want to risk cutting out the engine in dangerous wind conditions. The copter started to speed-climb, buzzing away from Hala Ranch.
The whole time, one thought haunted him. What if the Radix isn’t in the cista mystica?
Moonlight sparkled on frosted mountaintops as Brynstone buzzed away in the helicopter, leaving behind Zaki’s Colorado retreat. He had escaped the Saudi ambassador’s security force, flushing him with a sense of victory. Right now, that feeling alarmed him. Something could still go wrong. And it did. He glanced at the instrument panel. The chopper was puking fuel. He peered over his shoulder. Smoke boiled out of the tail boom. Turned out Agent Cregger was a decent shot. Brynstone needed to ditch the bird. Somewhere that wouldn’t put civilians at risk, but not too isolated. He had an unmarked vehicle waiting for him.
Aspen spread out beneath him. Old and new blended in architectural harmony. Victorian buildings, modern retail, and condo developments mingled with multimilliondollar trophy homes on Aspen’s outskirts. People weren’t skiing, but they weren’t asleep, either. In the aura of twinkling Christmas lights, downtown Aspen buzzed with revelers. The legendary nightlife drew the glitterati to high-end boutiques and cafés, while powder hounds lingered at boots-on après-ski taverns. Not a good place to set down a copter.
Aspen Mountain loomed ahead with its formidable 3,267-foot vertical. Rising above the town, the mountain—called Ajax by out-of-towners—had narrow ridges with steep terrain falling in both directions. The chopper was running low on fuel, forcing an emergency landing. Even without dangerous wind conditions, landing on mountainous terrain was treacherous. That wasn’t the only problem. Armed with torches, skiers twisted down the mountain like fireflies. Above them, a suspended Silver Queen Gondola dangled over Aspen Mountain’s slopes.
He had a guess as to why the skiers were down there after dark. Every January, Aspen paid tribute to winter with a four-day festival called the Wintersköl Carnival. Like a frozen Mardi Gras, Wintersköl boasted a fireworks extravaganza and a torchlight descent down Aspen Mountain. He guessed the Aspen Skiing Company took advantage of holiday hours to run a closed torchlight practice before Wintersköl. He couldn’t risk endangering lives.
He gripped the lever to the left of his seat. Moving the collective control up, he cr
eated pitch change in the rotor, causing the helicopter to climb. Aspen Mountain was coming up fast. Fighting damage to the helicopter and fierce crosswinds, he couldn’t clear the mountain. With his right hand on the cyclic, he eased back on the stick to bleed off any remaining momentum. He kept the parking brake armed and reduced all power. With blades spinning on the way down, he braced for a hard landing. His eyes widened. The copter was hurtling toward a restaurant. Perched on Aspen Mountain’s summit, the Sundeck Restaurant boasted a dazzling view of the Roaring Fork Valley. The lights were dimmed as if the place was closing for the evening, but he could see people inside. If he hit the building, everyone could die.
Without hesitating, he dropped the Agusta Bell, missing the restaurant. Sundeck staff pressed against the windows, staring in disbelief as the helicopter blasted into the mountainside beneath them. The impact rocked him in his seat. The skids hit the snow and snapped off as blinding powder sprayed the helicopter. It burst through a white swell, then into midair before striking the mountain again, carving a trench in the slope. A wall of snow cracked loose. Thundering down the mountain, the wave threatened to crush the torchlight skiers. He hoped they had abandoned their formations and raced to safety before the avalanche caught them.
He braced as the helicopter rolled down the steep mountain face. The bird busted apart as it flipped upside down. The upright mast split off, sending rotor blades flying into the air. He glanced through the shattered greenhouse window above the pilot’s seat. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Still attached to the stabilizer bar and swash plate, the rotor blades whirled skyward, heading toward the suspended gondola.
A blond-haired man peered out of the Silver Queen Gondola. Brynstone gaped in horror as the spinning blades slashed the gondola’s cable. The chopper punched through powder, hurling him upside down as if he were strapped inside some psychotic carnival ride. The Agusta Bell’s tail boom snapped free, then flipped into the air. The cowling ripped off the top, smashing the windows. As it cracked apart, he unbuckled his seat belt, then jumped onto the overturned cowling. Shrapnel from the broken window sliced beneath his bulletproof vest, leaving a gash across his hip. No time to contemplate the pain. With the avalanche roaring behind, he rode the engine cover like an enormous toboggan. In seconds, the wave would crush him.
The red gondola plummeted from above. Still attached to the free-swinging cable, it swung down on its tether like a small bus strapped to a bungee cord. The car must have already hit once, bashing the front end, before sailing back into the sky. The man dangled out the door.
Banking hard, Brynstone steered the cowling underneath the gondola car as it swung toward him. Ugly choices. If the gondola came too close, he’d be crushed. If his timing was off, the avalanche would shred him. He jumped for the gondola, diving into a wall of white. He cracked into something hard, but managed to find a hold. The car rocketed away from the mountain, this time with him hanging on. As his legs dangled, he felt someone tug at his arms. The blond man pulled him inside the gondola.
“That’s a beaut,” the man cried in an Australian accent. “Good on ya, mate!”
“We invented an extreme sport,” he laughed. “Hope we survive to claim credit for it.”
The gondola shuddered as it dropped again. Brynstone looked out the shattered window. The roar thundered like Niagara Falls. The car plunged into the avalanche’s crest. The force ripped apart the front end. Snow flooded through the windows. The sides buckled, then popped open, tearing the floor. He shoved open a trapdoor in the ceiling. Fueled by adrenaline, Brynstone climbed through the hatch and reached down. The man grabbed his hand as the gondola’s bottom half disappeared below them.
Both men grabbed the gondola’s suspension bracket, hanging on. With the avalanche rumbling around them, the roof dug into the snow, nearly flipping them into the air. Tension overwhelmed the cable. The roof snapped free. Kicking up a mist, they cruised down the mountain on the crumpled gondola roof. He stared down the avalanche’s backside as snow blasted his face. He hoped the cista mystica in his belt would survive the ride.
“Over there,” the Australian shouted. They leaned to the side, swerving the gondola roof toward an evergreen grove. The roof flipped, flinging them into powder.
A bitter stillness settled over the mountain. Buried in snow, Brynstone groaned as he raised his head. He caught his breath and rolled over before reaching down. He found the box in his belt pack. Was the Radix inside? He had to check. Digging himself out, he opened the cista mystica. Relief rushed over him. The Radix was inside the box. It was mesmerizing, unlike anything he’d ever seen. Simple yet beautiful. He wanted to hold it. Study it.
A few feet away, the guy brushed away snow.
Brynstone didn’t want to close the lid, but he couldn’t risk the man seeing the Radix. Sticking it in his belt pack, he squinted at the path of destruction carved into the mountain.
“Did it hit the skiers?” he asked, his face cold and stinging.
“Nah,” the blond man said, staggering in waist-deep snow. “It’ll break up in the Dumps.” He squinted. “Is that blood on the snow?”
Brynstone looked down. “Took shrapnel to the hip.”
“Name’s Cooper Hollingworth. Let me drive you into town. Aspen Ski Co keeps a snowcat to shuttle skiers up the slopes. It’s Chrissie Eve and we’re freezin’ our balls out here. I owe you. You saved my life.”
“Saved your life?” He coughed. “I almost killed you with that helicopter.”
“Maybe it was my wake-up call,” he grinned. “I came to work for Aspen Ski Co to score free passes, but I miss my girl. Raelene’s back in Canberra. Surviving this makes me think I should go home. I love these spiffy hills, but I am sick of this town’s rich Figjams.”
“Figjams?”
“Fuck I’m good—just ask me. That’s what we call ’em where I come from.”
“I’d appreciate a ride.” In the moonlight, Brynstone opened his wallet, then held out cash. “I need you to forget that you helped me. Will this do the trick?”
Hollingworth gaped at the bills. “For that kind of money, mate, I can forget anything.”
Chapter Eight
Washington, D.C.
7:33 P.M.
President Alexander Armstrong was taking a call when Secret Service agent Natalie Hutchinson entered the Oval Office. He motioned for her to take a seat on a chenille sofa poised near the fireplace. She obliged, staring at the blazing fire as she clutched her black cap. She was a dedicated agent, serving with distinction for the Service’s Uniformed Division. He had summoned Hutchinson from her post outside the first floor of the Executive Residence.
After sending holiday wishes to British prime minister James Gray and his wife, Ann, Armstrong ended the call. As he came around the ornate Resolute desk, Agent Hutchinson rose to her feet.
“Take a seat,” he said. “Please.”
She complied, glancing at the enormous eagle stitched in the blue presidential rug. He eased into an accent chair. “I need your help, Natalie.”
That brought the stony gaze he associated with Secret Service agents. He owed his life to these people, but their detached style unnerved him. He prided himself on his ability to read people. But the Service? No chance. They were Vulcans in sunglasses.
“Earlier tonight, my brother and Deena Riverside were on the South Portico. What were they talking about?”
“I didn’t listen to their conversation, sir. I advised them to return to the Blue Room.”
No expression. Like a talking corpse. He leaned forward.
“Natalie, I’m concerned about my brother. I know you can relate to that.” He paused. “I need to know what they were discussing. It’s critical.”
She swallowed. A sign of life. “Didn’t make sense, sir.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She cleared her throat, fighting her stoic instincts. “I overheard Fortune—I mean, Mr. Armstrong—mention something about the Radix,” she said, pronouncing it RAY
-dix. “He planned to pay a great deal of money to purchase it.”
“How much?”
“I believe he said top dollar. He expressed concern about it turning into a public-relations nightmare. That’s all I heard, sir.”
Armstrong headed to the fireplace. He drummed his fingers on the white marble mantel. “This thing they talked about. What did you call it?”
“The Radix. I have no idea what it means, sir. Their conversation was brief. They returned to the Christmas Eve party in the Blue Room.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Thank you, Agent Hutchinson. You may go.”
She opened the door on the curved wall and headed into the corridor outside the Oval Office. He stared at the Christmas tree near the window, thinking about his brother. Dillon was a smart businessman who wasn’t afraid of risk. He’d been burned a few times, but this seemed different. If he messed up, the blowback would hit the White House. Armstrong had a vision for his reelection strategy. There was no room for damage control for his little brother’s mistakes.
He had to learn more about the Radix.
He needed to know what Dillon was planning with Deena.
Baltimore
7:55 P.M.
Cori Cassidy had revealed her secret. Now, it was Mack’s turn.
Twenty doors surrounded the Amherst dayroom, each leading to patient bedrooms. Staff locked the private quarters during the day, forcing patients into the dayroom until bedtime. Cori had wondered about the twenty-first door. The staff acted as if it didn’t exist. Now Mack held a security pass card in front of a metal proximity reader. The door clicked open. They descended a white stairwell. Tiny hairs bristled on Cori’s arms. Dr. Usher had a single patient.
