Solomon's Arrow

by J. Dalton Jennings

  Judging by the expression on the Canadian lieutenant’s face, he was not pleased. “You were wrong, Waters. We’ve come all this fucking way—at great expense—for nothing.”

  Bram was at a loss. Jamison had been there only moments ago. He glanced around at the interior of the cabin: kitchen in the right-hand corner; coffee cup and plate sitting beside the sink; wooden table and chair in front of an eastward-facing window by the sink; comfortable chair; end table stacked high with reading material; fireplace glowing with the flames of a freshly stoked fire; all as it should be. No, he’d not been mistaken. “Jamison’s still here, I know it. Give me a moment to—” Bram abruptly stopped speaking and focused on the bedroom. One of the Canadians had opened an old trunk and was rifling through its contents. Bram had sensed the man’s sudden elation. “You, in the bedroom,” Bram shouted. “Don’t touch that latch!”

  The man shot him a startled look. “How did you …?” Exiting the bedroom, he approached the Special Forces leader. “Sir, there appears to be a trap door inside the truck I found. If Jamison is here, I think he’s hiding under the cabin, waiting for us to leave.”

  “Take a gas canister and toss it into the hidey-hole,” ordered the lieutenant. “If that doesn’t flush him out, we’ll use a flash grenade.”

  “Aye, sir,” the soldier acknowledged, removing the canister from his belt.

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” Bram said.

  “And why’s that, Mr. Waters?” said the lieutenant.

  “I … I’m not sure.”

  With an exasperated sigh the lieutenant motioned the soldier forward. Moving into position beside the weathered trunk, he removed the gas canister’s arming mechanism, tossed the ring aside, and reached in the trunk.

  Cacophonous alarm bells were clanging in Bram’s head. Something was terribly wrong. Something horrible was set to happen. That’s when he saw the auras surrounding everyone in the cabin start to flicker.

  “Wait!” he screamed. “It’s an ambush! The trunk’s been booby trapped!”

  The soldier instantly froze. With his arm halfway inside the trunk, he turned slowly toward his commanding officer. “Lieutenant?”

  The Special Forces leader had his eyes locked on Bram. “You told me he’s not suicidal. Is Jamison in a hidey-hole beneath the cabin, Mr. Waters?”

  Bram sent a mental probe beneath the trunk. He saw a small, reinforced enclosure, along with a tunnel that surfaced in the woods west of the cabin. Jamison, who’d climbed from the tunnel, was kneeling beside something covered by a white tarp, weapon in hand. After the explosion, he would escape on what he’d hidden under the tarp: a snowmobile. With a clear view of the front door, he was ready to shoot if the team exited the cabin without triggering the booby trap.

  “Well, Mr. Waters?” the lieutenant pressed. After listening to Bram’s rushed explanation, the lieutenant looked worried. “What do you suggest?”

  “He’ll pick us off easily if we exit through the front door. We need a distraction. If we stop inside the woods and set off the explosives, he’ll think we’re dead and let his guard down. But we must hurry … he’s already becoming impatient.”

  “But how will we detonate the bomb?” asked a steely-eyed, dark-haired woman, whom Bram knew to be Sullivant’s second-in-command.

  “Leave that to me,” he confidently replied.

  The lieutenant stared hard and piercingly at Bram. Without looking away, he said, “Sergeant Limoux, secure that gas canister. We’re leaving through the window in ten seconds.”

  Picking the pull-ring off the floor, Limoux rejoined his unit. In a matter of seconds, they were opening the window.

  Using hand signals, the group wordlessly exited the cabin and, trying to keep the crunching of snow to a minimum, trudged through the calf-deep powder back to the woods. As expected, the cabin blocked Jamison’s eastern view—but the old man had ears. They were relying on the wind whistling through the trees and whatever cold-weather gear Jamison might be wearing to mask their movements.

  Once they entered the woods and were lying face down on the ground, the lieutenant turned to Bram and whispered, “Does he still think we’re in the cabin?”

  Bram nodded. “He’s getting panicky.”

  “Good … he’s mistake prone. So how the fuck do you plan on detonating the bomb?”

  Smiling, Bram gave the side of his head a soft tap. Without further explanation, he used his telekinetic ability to lift the trapdoor. The entrance to Jamison’s escape tunnel had barely opened a quarter of an inch when a huge, deafening explosion shattered the early morning stillness.

  Bram had not expected the blast to be so violent. He and the others covered their heads and curled into balls, hoping to avoid being skewered or pummeled as shrapnel rained down around them. The surrounding trees protected them … for the most part. One member of Floyd’s unit was knocked cold when a foot-long chunk of wood ricocheted off a stump and struck his head. A more serious injury occurred when a sharp piece of ceramic embedded itself in one Canadian soldier’s upper thigh. Grunting loudly, he clutched his injured leg, the white outfit swiftly turning red with blood. In obvious agony, he kept his composure, clamping down the pain. A Special Forces soldier leapt into action, tending to his bleeding comrade.

  The lieutenant signaled for the remainder of the team to train their weapons on the smoking rubble. Shortly thereafter, a lean, gun-wielding figure materialized from the haze. He tentatively approached the ruined cabin, glancing around in search of human remains.

  Thumbing a button on his rifle, which activated the directional speaker on his scope, the lieutenant took aim and shouted, “Toss your weapon aside, Jamison.”

  The old man’s head whipped around to stare in their direction. His eyes were wide with terror and surprise. Glancing down at his assault-rifle, Jamison briefly considered going out in a blaze of glory.

  “Toss your weapon, Jamison! Lie down with your hands behind your head!” the lieutenant commanded. “In the name of His Majesty, you are under arrest for—”

  The wind changed direction, obscuring Jamison with smoke. “Shit!” exclaimed more than one soldier.

  Leaping to their feet, the uninjured team members burst forth from the tree-line and raced across the clearing. Jamison was no fool. The moment the wind shifted, he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

  The ski-less assault team was halfway across the clearing when Bram shouted, “He’s starting up the snowmobile.”

  Being electric, the vehicle’s low hum was masked by the sounds of crackling embers and whistling wind, but Bram knew; the vision flashed through his mind.

  Jamison mustn’t escape. They had to catch him … alive. He was the key to bringing down the CRA, the world’s leading terrorist organization. Holding their weapons at the ready, the unit dashed through the curtain of rapidly dissipating smoke and spread out in hot pursuit. But he was nowhere to be seen. As feared, the woods were empty—Jamison had escaped.

  Bram was trailing behind the others. Even if they turned back now and tried to locate their skis in all that rubble, he was fairly certain most of the skis were damaged or destroyed.

  From directly behind him, Bram heard a swooshing noise. Snapping his head around, he saw a crouched figure on skis, headed like a rocket toward an opening in the trees. The figure was female, one of Sullivant’s security officers.

  •

  Gritting her teeth and bearing down on her ski poles, Gloria Muldoon disappeared into the woods, leaving her stunned comrades behind. Floyd would probably dress her down, even if she succeeded in capturing Jamison, but it would be worth a tongue-lashing to ensure the vile, son-of-a-bitching saboteur paid for his crimes.

  The snowmobile’s tracks were clearly visible, making Jamison easy to follow. But tracking and catching were two separate animals. Gloria was traveling too slowly to keep pace. If something didn’t change soon, she’d fall even farther behind. She knew that if Jamison was able to make it to the small mining t
own fifteen miles away, his escape was almost certainly guaranteed. A single-engine plane (bought under an assumed name) most likely waited for him at the town’s landing field. Half the people in this godforsaken wilderness owned planes, flying them manually instead of with GPS. Gloria seriously doubted he’d file a flight plan, so tracking him would prove almost impossible.

  Her Bluetooth came to life. “Muldoon, Sullivant here. What’s your status?”

  “I spotted–” she grunted, maneuvering around a snow-covered bush. “I spotted a serviceable pair of skis in the rubble, took the initiative, and I’m now in pursuit of Jamison.” She cut sharply to her right and then left, avoiding the top of a broken tree hanging in her path. “I’ll contact you once I’ve caught up with the suspect. Right now, I need to concentrate.”

  “Roger that.” Floyd broke contact.

  Having spent part of her teenage years in the Swiss Alps, skiing came easy to Gloria, but she was still taking chances. After jumping blindly over a knoll, she found herself flying twenty feet through the air. Refusing to panic, she assumed the classic ski-jump position, sailing forty feet before landing smoothly and tucking into a racing crouch. The angle of descent had increased, allowing her to pick up speed. She’d entered a relatively straight stretch of ground and, as a result, spotted Jamison’s snowmobile in the distance as it curved to the left out of sight.

  The trees in that direction were thinning—enough for her to enter, but not enough for a snowmobile. Cutting to her left, Gloria sliced into the woods. If this tactic worked, she’d gain enough ground for a clear shot. Her assault rifle was strapped to her back, but it was too unwieldy to use while skiing. Instead, she’d rely on her trusty forty-five automatic, tucked safely in a shoulder holster. Her goal was to shoot out the electric engine or one of the tracks, as a snowmobile is useless if it can’t grip the snow. If that proved impossible, she’d try to wing Jamison and hope for the best. First, however, she had to make it safely through the woods. She felt like a downhill racer, zigzagging past small and large trees and dodging the low branches that threatened to take her head off. Her body sang with the intense surge of adrenaline flowing through her veins.

  She caught a glimpse of the snowmobile. Her plan was working. Avoiding a snow-covered stump, Gloria burst from the woods into a long, oval clearing. Jamison was to her right, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed, completely unaware that he was on the verge of being intercepted.

  Gloria adjusted her angle. Thirty yards and a rapidly thinning stand of leafless birch was all that separated them. She needed her gun. Pressing her ski pole tightly under her armpit, she unzipped her parka. The pole started to slip and she overcorrected, almost losing her balance as she fought to stay upright. Her sudden movement caught Jamison’s eye. After a quick double-take, he gunned the orange and blue striped snowmobile.

  Angrily tossing the ski poles aside, Gloria reached for her gun. They were now twenty feet apart and no longer separated by trees. She was keeping pace, but that wouldn’t last for long.

  Their eyes locked: Gloria’s stare was icy; Jamison appeared faintly amused.

  She slipped her weapon from its holster.

  Jamison’s arm crossed his body, in his hand a 9mm. Two shots rang out. One bullet struck her chest. Staggered by the force of impact, she lost her footing and fell, dislocating her shoulder. The remaining air in her lungs was forced out by her collision with the ground. In a spinning slide, Gloria’s right ski caught a root and tore free. Her foot twisted, but didn’t break. By this point, she was sliding on her stomach in a fit of fury, gasping for breath. Thankfully, her Kevlar vest had stopped the bullet and broken most of her fall. Jamison looked back, laughing at her misfortune, triumph in his eyes. She had failed.

  As Gloria screamed his name, the unbelievable occurred …

  Jamison was whooping with joy when the snowmobile collided with a snow-covered log. The momentum sent the vehicle cartwheeling and launched Jamison into the air. He tumbled end-over-end, boots flying violently from his feet. As he disappeared from view, his horrified scream was suddenly cut short.

  Kicking the other ski free, Gloria pushed herself off the ground with her good arm and stood holding her dislocated shoulder, trying to catch her breath.

  “Dammit!” she exploded.

  Pieces of snowmobile were scattered everywhere, the largest of which lay upended against an unyielding spruce. Limping forward, Gloria approached the wreckage with a singular thought in mind: that Jamison would still be alive. If she was able to extract some useful information before he died, she didn’t care if he was clinging to life by a slender thread.

  As she hobbled through the debris, her hopes evaporated. Locating Jamison wasn’t especially difficult, as the only requirement was to follow the trail of brain matter through the snow. The old man was laying face up, arms and legs akimbo, neck twisted at an impossible angle. Part of his skull was torn away. It must have smashed against a rock as he tumbled across the frozen ground.

  Gloria activated her Bluetooth implant. The members of her team were expecting an update. She paused, biting her lip, reluctant to give them the bad news.

  •

  Bram’s eyes were closed tightly. It was bad enough touching Jamison’s cold flesh without the additional burden of gazing into his sightless eyes. When he first arrived on the scene, he tried to close the old man’s eyelids, but the bitter cold had frozen them in place. Jamison had been dead for nearly an hour before he and the remainder of the team had caught up to Gloria Muldoon.

  Shortly after she bolted off in pursuit of Jamison, they’d searched the debris field for their skis, which they’d left outside the cabin door. The ensuing explosion had done its damage. During their futile search, only one serviceable ski was recovered. As such, it was a slow trudge to Muldoon’s position. They were barely underway when Sullivant relayed her devastating news.

  “Son of a bitch!” the lieutenant erupted, flush with anger. Rounding on Bram, he’d shoved a finger in his face and roared, “It’s up to you, Houdini! Get us something … I don’t care what. Some scrap of information that helps salvage this goddamn shit storm.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bram had replied. “By the way, Houdini was an escape artist, not a–” The ferocity of the lieutenant’s stare brought his comment to a sudden halt.

  The remainder of the trek was long and discomfiting. By the time they arrived, Bram was all but worn out.

  While struggling to read the psychic imprint contained within Jamison’s corpse, he heard a muffled pop: Sullivant had reset Muldoon’s dislocated shoulder. Shaking off the image, he refocused on Jamison. The old man had grown increasingly frustrated during his long stint in isolation. He’d been ordered to hole up in the cabin—a CRA safe house—by an unknown, mechanical voice on his PID filtered through a computer program.

  Bram spent thirty minutes pluming Jamison’s memories. He saw boring nights by the fireplace; encounters with local wildlife; time spent reading; many naps; and colossal bouts of masturbation. From what Bram gathered, the old man was a middleman, not a top-tier member of the CRA. The only useful information derived from Bram’s effort was a tidbit of information that led him to believe the main CRA headquarters was located in Europe, possibly Denmark.

  When he approached the lieutenant with this information, the young man held up a finger to wait, as he was speaking on his Bluetooth. “We’re located three miles southeast of your position. We’ll have the body prepped and ready when you arrive.” He tapped his implant. “Sorry about that, Mr. Waters. The chopper pilot’s at the cabin loading our wounded and will be heading here in five minutes. So … what did you find out from the old fucker’s corpse?”

  Bram was about to respond but stopped abruptly, sensing danger lurking in the nearby woods.

  “What’s going on, Waters?”

  “We have company. Gather your men. A large pack of wolves are sizing us up. They’re about to attack.”

  The lieutenant didn’t wast
e a second. “Listen up!” he shouted, moving toward the clearing. “Wolf alert! Bring Jamison’s body and form a defensive perimeter over here!”

  Bram looked around, seeing gray shapes darting through the brush. The wolf pack had been drawn like flies to the scent of blood, and was slavering with hunger. There were at least eight members of the pack and, being winter-starved, they would not easily abandon their prey. After a tense, fifteen-minute standoff, the familiar thup of approaching helicopter blades was a welcome relief to the entire group. For the wolves, the sound of approaching helicopters meant one thing: certain death. Their survival instinct kicked in and they fled, abandoning their hunger in favor of their lives.

  6

  A SECLUDED ESTATE NEAR ANTWERP, BELGIUM: 10:43 P.M., DECEMBER 25, 2060

  The lively strains of Mozart’s “Serenade Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, K525 First Movement” could be heard wafting up from the castle’s dance floor, two stories below the conference room. The 403rd annual Masked Christmas Ball was still going strong and the champagne was flowing freely, but the nine men seated around the circular conference table were neither drunk nor in the mood for holiday revelry.

  All were exceedingly wealthy, their ages ranging from fifty-three to ninety-one. They wore seventeenth-century period costumes, with jewel-encrusted masks covering their faces from the nose up. All were well aware of each other’s true identities but preferred to leave the masks on during the assemblage: it was a tradition that went back hundreds of years and always lent an air of mystery to the annual proceedings. On the second finger of their right hands they wore a gold ring emblazoned with the face of a roaring lion. Each ring had been passed down from generation to generation and was required before entry into the conference room. The owner of the castle was the one charged with inspecting each ring while shaking hands with its possessor.