Ascendant
Page 34
He pawed through the torn and stained remains of the caretakers clothing, finding a wallet with a few small bills and more importantly, a slim cellular phone. He flipped open the latter item and punched in a sequence of digits.
“This is Wallace Vaught.” The voice that answered was more alert than he would have expected given the hour, which could only mean that his contact was in a different time zone, further to the east.
“It’s me.” His vocal cords were tight from disuse and his voice gravelly and all but unrecognizable.
“Who is this?”
He was not used to having to explain himself to underlings, but it was evident that Vaught—a simpering sycophant whom he found useful, but in every other way intolerable—would not be able to connect the dots based on a mysterious early morning phone call.
“I’m going to give you a bank account number, a number that only you and one other man know about.” He rattled off a sequence. “That should tell you who I am. I need you to withdraw…take it all. We’re going to need it. Then come and get me.”
There a long silence at the other end, then finally: “Can it be?”
He ignored the question. “I need to know if the Trinity is safe.”
“The Trin… My god, of course you wouldn’t know. It was stolen.”
“Stolen?” His voice cracked with rage. “Who?”
“No one is sure. It only just happened. It was on display with the other artifacts, but someone switched it for a replica. Mira Raiden is looking for it.”
Mira. The very thought of the woman amplified his wrath exponentially, but the anticipation of revenge tempered his response and his steely calm returned. “Come and get me Wallace. Hurry.”
“Where are you, sir?”
He turned in a circle, gazing at his surroundings for some hint of his location in the landscape, but saw only his crypt, a squat marble structure modeled after the Roman temple of Vesta at Tivoli, set on a perfectly manicured lawn in the midst of a grove of cherry trees that were already giving up their leaves to Autumn. His eyes finally came to rest on the inscription above the door of the crypt. Two simple words in perfectly executed block letters, no date, no explanations:
Marquand Atlas.
“I’m right where you left me.”
Mira Raiden sped through the darkness, fleeing the pursuing yeti and the icy grip of hypothermia. There was a chance she might escape the former peril, but in doing so she had all but sealed her fate by the latter. She was lost now, and her intuition told her that every conceivable path led to failure.
Her gun was gone, not that it would have made much difference. She couldn’t have pulled the trigger anyway. At some point during the night, as the cold stole the feeling from her nerves, the sheer weight of the pistol had ripped it from her grasp, tearing chunks of frozen skin from her fingertips.
Dazed she staggered onward because there was simply no other alternative.
Mira.
The voice did not surprise her. In the context of her situation, it seemed perfectly reasonable that she would hear disembodied voices. But when it repeated again and again, it occurred to her to wonder to whom the voice belonged to. It wasn’t DiLorenzo. It certainly wasn’t the man she had always known as Walter Aimes. She didn’t believe in God, Jesus or guardian angels. So who did that leave?
Mira, this way! Hurry!
The voice was not truly audible; it would be impossible for her to hear speech. Even the howls of the yeti were indistinguishable from the shriek of the wind. Yet the words were nevertheless distinct; she could even tell from which direction they came, and altered her meandering course ever so slightly in order to heed its call. His call, she thought. I know this voice….
And then she saw him, standing before her, perfectly visible despite the gloom of night and the impenetrable shroud of blowing snow. His arms were spread in welcome, beckoning her onward. Mira. Come to me.
“Curtis.” The whisper was snatched away by the gale, and for a fleeting instant she felt a profound sadness. Her dead had come for her, which could only mean that… Well, it was a good ride.
Through the haze of her despair, she felt his firm grip as he pulled her into his warm embrace, and her fear fled away.
Rest now, Mira, she heard him whisper. You have begun to accomplish the will of the Wise Father, but there is much yet to do in the Great Work.
But then, as she slid toward the darkness of final release, the specter evaporated, revealing a different visage, one she did not immediately remember.
“Mira.” The man had to shout to be heard over the tempest. “Things ended badly between us last time. I hope we can make a fresh start.”
The sardonic voice, like the face, was unfamiliar, but she knew immediately who he was. A cry ripped past her frozen lips as the darkness mercifully claimed her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sean Ellis is the author of several novels. He is a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom, and has a Bachelor of Science degree in Natural Resources Policy from Oregon State University. He lives in Arizona, where he divides his time between writing, adventure sports, and trying to figure out how to save the world.
Visit him on the web at
http://www.seanellisthrillers.webs.com
BOOKS BY SEAN ELLIS
Dark Trinity
Ascendant
Descendant
The Nick Kismet Adventures
The Shroud of Heaven
Into the Black
The Devil You Know
Fortune Favors
The Adventures of Dodge Dalton
In the Shadow of Falcon’s Wings
At the Outpost of Fate
On the High Road to Oblivion
Secret Agent X
The Sea Wraiths
Masterpiece of Vengeance
The Scar
With Jeremy Robinson
Callsign: King
Callsign: King – Underworld
Callsign: King- Blackout
Prime
With David Wood
Hell Ship
Oracle
With Steven Savile
Wargod