The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection

by Carolyn McCray

  Brandt shrugged. “We’ve got a stop to make first.”

  Anger soothed his aching joints. “There is nowhere that is more important than—”

  He stopped mid-sentence as the sergeant turned to meet his gaze. The man had a black eye that extended to his hairline and a lip cut so deeply that Lochum could make out the throbbing of a blood vessel barely beneath the surface. Yet for all his injuries, Brandt seemed the stronger for them.

  “We’re going to Misir Carsisi to pick up some supplies, and that’s final.”

  Settling back in his seat, Lochum fumed at being spoken to in such a manner, but was wise enough not to test the sergeant’s current mood.

  Still his mind chewed on the problem. Misir Carsisi? The Spice Market? Why would the soldier want to go condiment shopping? Granted, the enormous outdoor market embodied the perfect mixture of ancient tradition and modern capitalism, but it was nowhere near the Hagia Sophia.

  “What in the world would that man need from the Bazaar?” he whispered to Rebecca. “The Hagia Sophia is the country’s most-visited tourist monument, after all. I am sure they have snacks galore.”

  Rebecca elbowed his sore ribs. “He’s got his reasons.”

  “Please,” he hissed. “Since you know him so well, would you divine them for me?”

  She spoke in a hushed tone. “When is the last time you saw him without a weapon?”

  The professor looked up abruptly. The soldiers were unarmed. All their material possessions had been lost in the crash. What good were soldiers without guns?

  “Then why risk the most crime-infested part of Istanbul?” Clearly, Brandt had been hit too hard in the head. “Is he an idiot, or simply reckless?”

  “Didn’t you just answer the question for yourself?”

  The professor opened his mouth, then realized his student was correct. Where better to find a criminal’s tools than where criminals resided? They were not purchasing condiments but semiautomatics.

  Satisfied they were not on a fool’s errand, Lochum carefully studied the small fragment of bone they had left. How tragic. Guns could be replaced, but the words inscribed on James were lost to history. He stroked the ragged surface. What else might he have learned of James’ life?

  What he held was tangible proof they were all real. They all lived and breathed and eventually died, as any men would.

  Rebecca must have misread his mood, for she patted his arm. “No matter what happens, your work will be lauded for generations to come.”

  Kind words, only he was no longer concerned with such things. Now, he wished only to tell the true story of Jesus’ life. Good, bad, human, or divine, he wanted the world to know their savior.

  It seemed even at his advanced age that he had the capacity to grow.

  Rebecca handed him a page of their transcription that she had somehow managed to salvage from the fire. “Rudolph and Martin will be especially pleased with your findings.”

  Rebecca referred to the scholars who had diligently translated the Gospel of Judas. Much of the bones’ writings supported the authors’ assertion that Jesus and Judas were closer than brothers and that no betrayal had occurred, only an agreement between the two friends.

  Which only supported Lochum’s theory. By choosing the moment of the betrayal, Jesus could have ensured his plan’s success.

  “They’re going to go berserk that Judas was present when Jesus cast out the demons from Mary Magdalene.” She read further down the scorched page. “Do you take this to mean that Judas had a congenital limp?”

  Lochum shook his head. “No, you misinterpreted the conjunctive verb in the second stanza. The line states he had a childhood injury to the right leg that did not heal correctly.”

  But he realized that she already knew that. Rebecca had given him the opportunity to chide her. Something she knew always brightened his mood. He patted her shoulder. “I’m fine. Truly, ‘Becca.”

  “Yeah, well, you might be, but she, I’m not so sure about,” Brandt said turning to face Rebecca as Lopez parked the car on the steep hill across from the Spice Bazaar. “At least not after you hear my plan.”

  * * *

  Rebecca nearly tripped yet again on her shiny new high heels. Davidson caught her elbow. “Remember, you were born to wear Prada.”

  She, however, wasn’t so sure as she tried navigating the cobblestones of the open market in three-inch stilettos. Rebecca hadn’t worn heels since Lochum stopped buying them for her. Dressed in a tartan skirt and silk blouse, she felt just as much in costume as Brandt’s gladiator gear, but Davidson looked simply sophisticated in an Armani suit and Gucci loafers.

  Acting as rich, naïve Irish tourists, it seemed al-Qaida wasn’t too pissed off at the Emerald Isle, they strolled without fear of a random terrorist attack, making their way through the tangle of stalls.

  The market assaulted the senses. Spices filled overflowing bins. Saffron, chilies, and turmeric overwhelmed the scent of fresh lavender, sunflower, and sesame. Adding to the mix were a thousand other spices she couldn’t even begin to name.

  Spaced between the condiments were open-air grills that cooked your favorite dish with the spices just purchased from the stall next door. Occasionally visitors would pass a table with the most pungent of odors. Medicinal powders brought from the Far East.

  Punctuating the smells were the vendors’ shouts. They called out to shoppers and fought loudly with one another. This was one of the few places in the world where one could buy a Persian rug and freshly cut cinnamon bark right next to one another.

  Through all of this, they browsed, feigning interest in some daffodil blossoms for a tea or chopped cloves. As they drew deeper and deeper into the market, Rebecca became more and more tense.

  A loud cry carried over the chaos. At first she cringed, but then realized it was just the call to prayers from the Yeni Cami, or the New Mosque, just a short block away. From the minaret above, the muezzin, or caller of prayer, beckoning all believers to the mosque.

  Rebecca looked at her Tiffany watch and was again struck by the number of diamonds surrounding the face. Where Davidson and Svengurd had come up with this expensive bit of couture in such a short time, she didn’t know, but the bejeweled hands told her this was the call to midday prayers.

  In a wave, merchants pulled out their small ceremonial rugs and faced toward Mecca. They were deeply religious in Istanbul, but also extremely pragmatic. The bustling tourist trade did not afford five hours a day away from their stalls. Once done praising Allah, the men rolled up their carpets and were back to hawking their wares within minutes.

  In this interlude, Rebecca noticed that sprinkled throughout the Bazaar were vendors of kitschy tourist baubles. Davidson guided them toward one.

  The private spoke in broken Turkish, even though she knew full well he was fluent in the language. “Do you sell, I mean ‘tasflyet.’ Gold. ‘altin.’ Ring.” He indicated Rebecca’s fourth finger. “Cal. Cal.”

  The fully bearded man nodded his head vigorously. “No. No.”

  Since they both looked confused, the merchant continued. “I no have but my cousin. He have many beautiful rings for the lady.”

  “I want kalite. Quality.” He pointed to the bling on her wrist. “Expensive. Pahalilik.” Davidson winked at the man. “She’s worth it.”

  The merchant bobbed his head. “Very nice. Make proud at the club!”

  “Excellent.”

  Everything seemed routine as the man’s wife took over the stall and he escorted them toward the back of the market, but Davidson grabbed her hand and spoke so low that only she could hear. “Stay close.”

  Rebecca nodded as they made their way past a booth specializing in milk. Not cow’s, but camel’s, ox’s, or llama’s. The deeper they went the smaller the booths became until they were crammed elbow to elbow, and the goods became shadier and shadier. Cheap knock-off watches and perfumes that claimed to be Calvin Klein, only the “K” and the “C” were reversed.

  Finally t
he merchant urged them up a steep staircase to an adjacent building. Everything in her body screamed not to enter the darkened storefront. Did tourists really fall for this scam?

  Davidson urged her forward. Rebecca followed, but she wished it were Brandt who accompanied her. Forget the whole awkwardness issue, she felt safe around the sergeant. He radiated confidence. Unlike Davidson.

  Granted, she’d seen the private in action, but he looked pretty scrawny, which unfortunately, was exactly the reason he had been chosen to be her escort. Who in their right mind would attack Brandt, Svengurd, or even Lopez? Each oozed masculine prowess.

  So here she was walking into a trap, knowing it was a trap but walking into it nonetheless.

  * * *

  Brandt held onto the edge of the roof, keeping himself perfectly still as two children ran down the alley. He looked to his left. Svengurd was halfway over the ledge, frozen in place. How easy it would be for the corporal to give away their position. Wasn’t that exactly what a traitor would do?

  But Svengurd was nothing but professional, waiting until the kids were gone, then rolling his frame over the gutter. Brandt joined him. Just because he didn’t voice his suspicions didn’t mean he wasn’t keeping an eye out.

  Side by side, they snuck up on the roof, careful that their footfalls didn’t register through the cracked shake tiles. Brandt paused as they made it to the top. They were supposed to take positions on either side of the roof, but he hesitated. Brandt’s attention would be split between watching the corporal and worrying about Rebecca’s safety.

  In the end, his fear outweighed his suspicion. He gave the nod and Svengurd scrambled across the roof, taking up position. With one last glance, Brandt made his way to the other side, vowing that if the corporal did anything, anything at all to endanger Rebecca, there wouldn’t be any need for a military tribunal. Brandt would take care of it himself.

  * * *

  The floorboards creaked as Rebecca and Davidson followed the merchant, who beckoned them deeper into the warehouse. He seemed the witch luring Hansel and Gretel into her oven. Only it wasn’t candy he used as bait, but sparkling engagement rings. At the far end of the room, a case glittered with gold, silver, and platinum.

  Davidson squeezed her hand. He was ready, but she wasn’t when a glint caught her eye. It took another second for her to realize it was a knife.

  Rebecca didn’t have time to scream as it came stabbing toward her, but she didn’t need to. Davidson deflected the blade, then jammed his palm into the assailant’s nose. Blood splattered as the man’s nose cracked.

  Another two men jumped from the shadows, blissfully unaware that Brandt and Svengurd were only seconds from crashing through the windows. In a shower of glass, the soldiers descended from the roof.

  Rebecca almost felt sorry for the thugs. Sure they rolled tourists, but now they were up against the world’s best. Davidson shouted in Turkish for them to surrender, but they charged forward. Even the guy with a broken nose.

  She squinted. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  Svengurd took out his man instantly, but Brandt’s had a gun. The sergeant used a chain as a whip, backing him off, then a well-placed blow to the trachea, brought Brandt’s assailant down. Three men in three seconds. It was a new record. The merchant tried to sneak out, but Davidson caught him.

  “Take me to your boss,” Brandt said as a fourth as-yet-unseen man threw a knife that sank into the sergeant’s thigh.

  Without hesitation, he jerked the blade out, and with a fury she hadn’t seen before, Brandt went after him. Even though the thug had two knives, it was the sergeant who had the advantage. A slash flailed open the man’s chest. As blood gushed, the sergeant stabbed the man’s knee, dropping him.

  The sergeant had the blade to his neck, glaring at the merchant. “I will ask one last time. Take us to your boss, or this will get very messy.”

  The merchant’s eyes dilated to black. “Ya. Ya.”

  With careful precision, Brandt drew the blade across the man’s throat. Rebecca gasped, but should have known better. The sergeant hadn’t cut the jugular, but simply left a bloody line in the skin. The street thug would be marked by this quest. As they all were.

  CHAPTER 21

  ══════════════════

  Turkish Market

  Brandt watched Svengurd kick in the door, shoot the first person that came at him with the stolen forty-five caliber handgun, then plug the second guy in the arm, spinning him around. Not the reflexes of a traitor.

  For the first time since the Budapest ambush, Brandt had hope that he was wrong about the corporal. Maybe the Knot really was just that lucky.

  Davidson’s aim with a knife turned out to be as precise as his sniper rifle. The blade nailed the third bodyguard in his gun arm. The automatic weapon clattered to the floor.

  So basically the only thing left for him to do was escort Rebecca into the room. Brandt had wanted to stash her with Lochum and Lopez, but time constraints overrode safety. They had to maintain the element of surprise.

  “Kim o kaba yap sen planya sen ol?” the greasy boss asked.

  “I’m going to make your bottom line look very attractive,” Brandt answered as he unrolled a wad of hundreds. American hundreds.

  The boss’ eyes darted to the cash, then to his downed men. He tried a slick move of pulling a hidden gun, but Svengurd already had a muzzle against his temple. The boss didn’t need to know they only had two more bullets.

  Handing Rebecca off to Davidson, Brandt sat down opposite the man. “Fazil, you know who and what my team represents. I know who and what you represent, so why don’t we cut the crap and start bargaining.”

  The boss yelled in Turkish at the merchant, who was too busy sobbing to answer. Brandt let this go on for a few moments, then kicked the desktop.

  “Are you ready, or would you like to be another man down?”

  “What does Special Forces want with one such as me?” the man pleaded, acting the small-time hustler rather than the medium-scale arms dealer he truly was. There wasn’t a month that Fazil’s name didn’t pop up on Interpol’s Middle East person-of-interest bulletin.

  “I need four automatic weapons, preferably American made, but we’ll take Israeli or German, but no Russian-issued, even specially modified. They need to have been field used, not just tested. Nothing off the assembly line. Five hundred rounds each, plus three side arms and one sniper rifle.”

  Davidson added, “A Varmint A4, but if you can’t get one then a Bravo-51, but only if it comes with enhanced night-scope range.”

  Fazil leaned back in his chair, spreading wide his arms. “Is that all?”

  Brandt shook his head. “Actually we want a total of fifty grenades. Ten Flashbangs. Twenty concussives. The other thirty, whatever you’ve got in the warehouse.”

  “You cannot be serious, my friend.”

  Svengurd cocked the gun as Brandt spoke. “Deadly.”

  “But…” Sweat trickled down the man’s double chin. “But you have an American consulate just down at the river, and your Air Force base is but a two-hour drive south.”

  “Look, since the IRA and Basque Separatists called cease-fires, you’ve got to be hurting. I know you won’t deal with the jihadists, so your business has been drying up. Just take our cash and look the other way.”

  Fazil leaned forward, cupping his hands on the stained desk calendar. “Then you must look. How do I know this is not a sting operation? How do I know you are not working with Interpol?”

  Brandt shrugged. “I guess the only way to prove it is to kill you and move onto our next supplier.”

  The man’s flushed cheeks blew in and out as he weighed the risks and gains of the proposal. “Those others will charge you twice as much,” he finally said. “And then tell al- Qaida exactly where you are.”

  That was more like it, Brandt thought.

  Time to start haggling.

  * * *

  Lochum fidgeted
in the backseat of the Audi. Why had Rebecca been included in this outing while he languished, being babysat by Lopez? The Latino leaned back in his seat, reading a map of Istanbul. He had paid a child on the street ten American dollars when it was worth less than two cents. Lochum did not like the man’s attitude or his three-days-without-a-shower odor.

  “What did I tell you about the door handle?” Lopez asked as he eyed the professor in the rearview mirror.

  He had not even realized that his hand was upon the metal latch until the soldier said something. His claustrophobia was acting up. The air was stale inside the car, but Lopez refused to open the windows. They were trapped in this glass and steel box.

  “Brandt gave me permission to put you in the trunk, dude.”

  With reluctance, Lochum laid his hands in his lap. He could not be sure Brandt had not given that order and that Lopez would not carry it out. But the corporal opened the trunk anyway.

  “I have done as you asked!” he said, too high-pitched for even his ear, but he feared Lopez was making good on his threat.

  “Don’t pop an aneurism. They’re back.”

  The sound of a bag being thrown into the trunk proved the swarthy man correct. The passenger doors opened, and the rest of the team tumbled in, almost jubilant. Davidson was all smiles and even Brandt’s black eye seemed less black. Svengurd passed off a handful of weapons to Lopez.

  “Oh, yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! Come to Papa!”

  Lochum was not quite sure where the corporal was stashing them, but the guns disappeared instantaneously. Rebecca slid into the seat beside him, equally happy. Somehow she had changed out of the classic skirt and blouse outfit he had picked out and was now in chinos and some knock-off Juicy Couture T-shirt. He knew he never should have let her out of his sight.

  Brandt turned around, but when Lochum went to interrupt, the sergeant did the strangest thing. He smiled. A full ear-to-ear smile.

  “My dear Dr. Archibald Lochum, where is it that my team and I can take you and your esteemed colleague, Dr. Monroe?”