Ottoman Dominion
Page 28
It was then he saw the young man with the scarred face standing at the top of the stairs. Blood pulsed from the side of his head, falling to his already blood-saturated shirt. Instantly Mullaney knew. They’re not after Cleveland. That one, he’s after me.
Mullaney swung round to Traynor, the words on his lips, “Get Cleveland out. It’s me—”
But Captain Traynor was no longer there.
The roar of an engine, the wailing screech of tires … Mullaney glanced at the street … and a garish delivery truck, with a canvas tarp covering the space behind the cab, slid sideways to a stop in the middle of the street, its cab facing Mullaney and the riddled JSOC vans. Before the wheels stopped sliding, two men emerged from a hole cut in the top of the tarp and began inundating the shooters above them, on both sides of the street, with the heavy thump and relentless destruction of .50-caliber machine guns. A bunch of bodies leaped out of the back of the truck, ran for cover while laying down a murderous fusillade on their attackers.
Pat McKeon jumped from the passenger’s side of the cab and ran to the front of the burning lead van.
Pat McKeon?
But there was no time to think. He swung around and peeked up the stairs, the Glock held in front of him. Before Mullaney could get off a shot, he caught a quick glimpse of the young man. The machine gun in the scarred man’s hands blasted holes in the plaster wall as he descended the stairs, driving Mullaney deep into his corner for cover.
Assan’s attention was riveted on the hands of Arslan Eroglu as the Turk reached for the ram’s skin over the box.
He was only dimly aware of the heat that built at the back of his neck.
Pat McKeon flew across the narrow street and threw her body in front of the lead van … and covered Cleveland’s body that was wedged up under the front bumper. He was protected from the gunfire above him by the engine block at his back. And his eyes were open, gazing at McKeon with unreserved shock.
“McKeon?”
“Shut up and stay still,” she barked as she pulled her Glock from the holster at the small of her back. She scanned the rooftops, trying to assess the situation. And saw the JSOC soldiers advancing behind parapet walls both up and down and on both sides of the street. The attackers were pinned down by the savage devastation of the powerful .50s pounding out carnage from the back of the truck.
The JSOC pincer was relentless and lethal as they shredded one attacker after another. The roar of the gunfire fell, then rose again.
McKeon looked down at the ambassador. “Are you wounded?”
He shook his head no.
McKeon lowered her face close to Cleveland’s ear. “If you ever try to pull something like this on me again, I will personally kick your rear end from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem and back again. Do you copy?”
Cleveland’s eyes were wide. But he quickly nodded. “Never again.”
McKeon turned her attention back to the remaining shooters, fighting to keep a smile from reaching her face.
He hesitated, uncertain of the next step. How could he bypass Eroglu’s body to assimilate the power of the box into his immortal being? Where was the power—on the box, inside? What was the way …
The Turk’s desire blossomed into overwhelming hunger. He marshaled all of his consciousness, honing his senses, alert to the input of every cell.
Reciting the secret words of the dark lords, overflowing with the ecstasy of triumph, banishing any doubt, the Turk placed his hands on the pelt but pushed his fingers under the pelt until they wedged under the lip of the box’s lid. He lifted the lid …
The gunfire was shifting in location and dwindling, slowly, in intensity. The tide had turned, but that had little meaning for Mullaney. A flood of bullets continued to rip up the ground and the walls around him. The young man seemed to have an endless feed of ammunition. Mullaney couldn’t move. He was caught in a trap, right where the young man wanted him to be.
And the hunter was getting closer.
Eroglu’s hands were on it. The Turk was …
An intense halo of crimson engulfed Assan, sharpened talons of fire pierced the back of his neck, driving him to the undulating stone floor. Terror pierced his consciousness.
The One!
“Get rid of the gun, or I’ll drop you where you are.” The young man’s voice came from just around the corner, his automatic continually laying down a cascade of bullets.
After all this, he’s not going to shoot me. That’s not what he’s after.
Mullaney played for time … and an opening. He threw his Glock down onto the driveway, in front of the stairs.
The young man turned the corner, the red-hot, smoking machine gun in his left hand, a long, serrated knife blade in the right.
Another knife.
“Who are you?” Play for time!
The young man smiled. It was the smile of a hungry leopard closing steadily on its dinner.
“I am my father’s son.” The red, livid scar across the top of his face twitched in anticipation. “You had no mercy for him. I have no mercy for you. And you will pay for his death.”
With two lightning steps, the young man advanced on Mullaney and released the gun from his left hand. He turned his shoulders and raised the knife to strike, his left hand snapping out like a striking serpent. With prodigious strength he clamped a vise hold on Mullaney’s right shoulder.
The right arm flexed for the lethal thrust. But a stunned look of shock flooded the young man’s face and stilled his arm. He opened his mouth to protest something … and then uttered a spine-shaking scream. His right fist shook as if he was trying to will the knife blade into Mullaney’s throat. But blood began to run like rivers from his eyes. His hair fell out in clumps. And as he gasped for breath, his swollen black tongue erupted in festering sores.
He fell at Mullaney’s feet, dead before he hit the stones.
At first, it was an almost imperceptible tingling at the tips of Eroglu’s fingers.
The Turk’s heart denounced dread and grasped conquest, while increasing the speed and fervency of the occult murmurings crossing his lips—incantations designed to counteract the deadly design of the box. The Turk had seen how his disciples, when they broke into the Istanbul synagogue, and others died once they touched the box—bleeding eyes; black, bulging tongue; hair falling out before life was ripped from them. That fate would not touch him.
His eyes focused on fingers that rested against the box and held the lid. Yes! It was warmth that surged into his fingers, warmth that emanated from what he was holding. The Turk’s breathing became shallow and faster. He tried to feel into his fingers. What was …
Strength. He felt a release of strength, greater power, into his fingers, through the palms of his hands. Not death. Power!
The cresting power coursed up his arms, engorging his muscles with the strength of thousands. A manic smile of triumph engulfed his face as he looked at the rioting madness of the red room’s walls. “Yes!”
The Turk could feel an exponential expansion of his strength, through his shoulders, across his chest. Now it was rising up, from his feet through his legs. This was not death. Death had no domain over him. This was power!
The Turk threw back his head and unleashed a roar of triumphant conquest that bellowed off the resounding walls. The power was his! Finally … the power and the glory were all his. He would no longer be a slave. He would be the master, master of—
His eyes flashed open and saw the evil, yellow stare of the One, his throbbing red presence on the far side of the room, his devouring mouth wide and a laugh from the pit of perdition erupting into the room.
48
Alitas Street, Ankara
July 23, 6:56 p.m.
The shooting stopped … but not the noise. The two backup black vans raced into the driveway, skidded to a stop, and soldiers from all sides started shouting.
“Move … move.”
“Nobody gets left behind!”
“Get the wounded in the left van wit
h the doc.”
“Move … move.”
Mullaney looked up from the desiccated body on the driveway beneath him. McKeon was half pulling, half lifting Cleveland in his direction.
“Are you hurt?” Mullaney and McKeon both said at the same time.
But Cleveland was looking down at the body then back to Mullaney. “You still have the anointing of the guardian,” he said. “You haven’t passed it on. Somehow it saved you.”
Captain Traynor raced up, blood oozing from a hole in his thigh. “Get your butts moving,” he yelled. “We need to vanish. Move!”
Incirlik Air Base, Adana
July 23, 6:56 p.m.
Despite the heat, Edwards was downing his third cup of coffee when he heard the radio squawk from a corner of the hanger.
“Contact!” said a voice nearly drowned out by the thrash of helicopter rotors. “About thirty miles west of the base at thirty-six minutes, seventeen degrees north; thirty-two minutes, forty-six degrees east. An isolated warehouse complex. Three identical trucks parked alongside. Somebody’s produce company.”
Edwards stood over the shoulder of the radio operator. “What’s the tell?” asked Edwards.
“Fenced-in enclosure. Six sentries. All black clad, black hoods, automatic weapons. These guys are not guarding somebody’s lettuce.”
“Maintain covert surveillance,” said Edwards. “We’re on our way.” He tapped the radio operator on the shoulder. “Recall all of our men. Tell them to get on their giddy-up. We’re movin’ out.”
Alitas Street, Ankara
July 23, 6:58 p.m.
“So my willful one, you finally have in your hands the desire of your lust.” The voice of the One was laced with taunting mockery. “You believe you have triumphed over me … your master? You believe this is your ultimate victory?”
The Turk sharpened his focus on the One, even as the muscles and sinews of his body physically enlarged, as the reaches of his mind expanded through the universe, as the power of his darkness deepened into ebony dominion. “I have the power!” he bellowed. “It is mine!”
“Yes, it is yours,” whispered the vision of the One. “You have finally conquered, completed the work of centuries. What you have in your hands you deserve.”
There was something in the One’s voice that broke through the Turk’s exquisite revelry, something that delivered a warning to the Turk’s ever-expanding consciousness. A wisp of doubt? No! It was sovereign power that flowed through him, filled him to overflowing with supernatural strength. He was unstoppable. Invincible.
“You,” he screamed at the One, “will now do my bidding. I will—”
The Turk looked down toward the box. His forearms were extended beyond the sleeves of his jubba. The muscles of Eroglu’s forearm were thick and throbbing, huge and expanding in strength, pushing against the limits of his skin. Just as his mind was accelerating in perception, new knowledge filling his brain to capacity.
He felt the headache first.
“How does unlimited power feel, my willful one?”
The Turk felt it. Unfettered energy continued to pour from the box, through his fingers and into him … body, mind, soul, and spirit. But he was already full.
“Unlimited power,” snarled the One, “has no limits. Do you really think I would have allowed you to take what was mine … if I wanted it?”
The press of discomfort in Eroglu’s body, in the Turk’s mind, quickly morphed into an encroaching pain. The Turk tried to pull Eroglu’s fingers from the box and failed. He strained with all of his new strength; the bulging muscles of his arms stretched tight with the effort. He failed. And he feared.
He felt it. Like a river unleashed through a broken dam, the overwhelming power and strength gushing from the box was pouring into him unabated. Pushing beyond his limits to contain it. Power being compacted, compressed against the limits of his body, against the confines of his brain. And still it flowed undiminished … now unwanted.
Understanding broke upon the Turk like a thunderclap, a punctuation of the pain that began to throb through Eroglu’s entire being. He sought the eyes of the One.
“Help me.” A penitent’s sigh. “Help me!”
The red room was still swirling, the golden symbols gyrating, but now the madness of the red room appeared to have invaded the essence of the Turk. His body began to tremble, slowly at first, but accelerating, and the vibration moved through his consciousness into the depths of his intellectual cortex.
“Help me!”
“Plead!’ snapped the One. “I know your black heart. And I’ve prepared for this day when I knew you would betray me. Another is prepared to take your place. So there is no help for you,” he whispered. “And no hope. Enjoy your newfound power. You will need it but will not find it in the lake of fire.”
“Help me!” he screamed. The crimson face of the One vanished, but the screams of the Turk increased.
The Turk felt the power grow, expand, push, and the depth of his pain matched the terror of his black soul. He could not stop it. It pressed against every fiber of his body, every cell of his brain. It’s force …
His last thought was a wail of torture and despair, a keening scream that burst through the walls of the red room, silencing its madness, and rattled the foundations of the house on Alitas Street. And like a dying sun at the edge of the universe, for a shard of a second, the body of Arslan Eroglu … home of the malevolent spirit of evil, the Turk … collapsed in upon itself like a giant nova. In a final heartbeat, it burst asunder, exploded, erupted, and was vaporized by the outrushing onslaught of unlimited power.
Incendiary devices had consumed the two black vans chewed up by gunfire, leaving only glowing husks as smoke signals for the Turkish police to follow. But they would find nothing in their remains.
The one van was getting crowded with the wounded. Mullaney couldn’t see how many, but there were a lot of bodies. McKeon was standing next to him, her arm around the ambassador’s waist. She wasn’t letting go. The wound in Mullaney’s shoulder was starting to throb, but the field dressing the soldier had put on in the cavern was still quenching the bleeding.
Captain Traynor, to his right, was quickly wrapping the wound in his thigh with adhesive gauze. He shoved the remaining gauze in his pocket, picked up his Colt M4A1 with one hand, grabbed Mullaney with the other, and turned him toward the second van. “There’s no room for us in that first van. We’ll need to …”
Whatever blood was remaining in Mullaney’s veins turned to ice as both he and Traynor snapped their attention to the open door of the garage. From somewhere out of the pit below, a scream of eternal terror burst into the garage. More than any fear he had faced that day—perhaps in his life—the torment of that wail chilled Mullaney to the depths of his soul, like the howl of a demon at the edge of its grave.
“Now that sounds like evil has met with justice,” said Traynor. He pulled on Mullaney’s arm and waved at McKeon. “C’mon. There’s no time to waste.” Traynor maneuvered his way into the second van. He helped Cleveland up into the bed, and Mullaney and McKeon clambered in behind him. “Move out!”
Traynor tapped his sergeant on the shoulder. Grim resignation covered the sergeant’s face as he looked back. “All accounted for, sir. But three …”
The captain closed his eyes, and his head dropped to his chest. Mullaney knew what the man was suffering in his heart. Traynor took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, looking up. “Where are we headed?”
“Extraction point delta,” said the sergeant. “And I give us less than even odds to get there.”
49
Georgetown, DC
July 23, 12:01 p.m.
“Well, I just wasn’t sure … figured you would want to know, even though you’re home with a bug,” said Arthur Ravel, the deputy secretary of state.
Sure, thought Noah Webster, and when was the last time—the first time—you ever called me? Ravel could barely conceal the glee of sweet revenge in his voice.
“After all,” Ravel continued, as if he were chatting with a close confidant, “it’s not as if she walks in to see the secretary every day without an appointment. And she had two men accompanying her who I had never seen before. If she were my …”
“As it happens,” Webster interrupted, “I asked Nora to deliver a very important, personal message to the Secretary. I’m sure that was the reason for her haste. But thank you, Arthur, for thinking of me and being considerate.”
Stick the knife in further, if you can, you hypocrite! Two years earlier Webster had sabotaged one of Ravel’s pet projects, leaking to the press unreported cost overruns. The storm was short-lived but strong enough that the program was sliced from the State Department’s budget. And Arthur Ravel’s daughter lost her job.
“Of course, Noah,” said Ravel, his voice dripping with barely veiled contempt. “We all need to help each other, watch each other’s back. This city is full of unscrupulous scoundrels who would slit your throat for an advantage, or a promotion, or … just out of spite.”
The deputy secretary of state, Evan Townsend’s right hand, let the words sink in. Webster knew this was much worse than Ravel was revealing. He was enjoying himself too much. He had lost all fear of Webster’s retaliatory power. Which was Webster’s greatest fear. He knew he was staring the end in the face.
“Well, I’m glad it’s nothing,” said Ravel. “Just thought you would want to know. I hope you are feeling better soon. Good-bye, Noah.”
Webster looked at the phone in his hand. Rage roiled his stomach and threatened to cloud his mind. He fought for control and, for the moment, lost.