The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection

by Carolyn McCray

  “I know this is tense and all,” Levont said, “but oh my gawd, this is awesome. Talli does not know what he is missing.”

  Unfortunately, he did not.

  “Take the next right,” Brandt urged.

  “I’ve got a side of beef in the way,” Lopez informed him.

  “Exactly,” Brandt answered.

  Lopez’s hand went to the emergency brake, preparing for a hairpin turn. Slamming on the brakes, they turned to the right. The closest bull continued ahead, getting knocked in the hindquarters by a car nearly its own weight. The bull spun out, falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  The car streaked to the right, ducking into a side alley. The rest of the bulls tried to follow, but the cobblestone was too slick and they ended up in a nice big steak pile.

  “Get us—”

  Brandt didn’t finish his sentence, as the Disciples’ car had tagged them in the rear, sending them spinning.

  Gunfire filled the air.

  This was not how his honeymoon was supposed to go.

  * * *

  Davidson shot. He didn’t have time to actually set it up, but by God, he shot. The bullet went wide, disappearing into the alley. Correcting, Davidson shot again, this time shattering the back window of the Disciples’ SUV.

  That gave the driver pause. Enough to allow Lopez to control the spin of their car and head down the alley, in the opposite direction. That didn’t mean Davidson had lain off. If anything, it gave him more motivation to keep the Disciples right where they were.

  With each shot, Davidson increased his precision. Taking out the rearview mirror. Hitting the steering wheel.

  It was only a bonus when the bulls caught up with the Disciples’ SUV. They seemed pretty dang determined to vent their frustration on something. Davidson was glad that it was the Disciples.

  Figuring the bulls could pin down the SUV as well as he could, Davidson slung his rifle and took off over the rooftop. Leaping, he made the jump and landed on the next tile roof.

  Time to head to the rally point.

  * * *

  Rebecca cried, laughed, and sighed, all at the same time. They had done it. And she supposed that Lopez had footage of their narrow escape. They were halfway across town and not a single bull. That had to be some kind of record.

  Brandt looked in front of them, behind them, to each side. Finally satisfied they were safe, he reached over and hugged her.

  Then Levont screamed, a chunk of his shoulder flying off and out of the car. Brandt pulled her down as Levont’s hand clutched at the wound, blood pouring between his fingers.

  No one asked what had happened. Everyone knew. The Disciples’ sniper.

  Lopez made a hard left turn, getting them out of the sniper’s line of sight as he reached over and put pressure on Levont’s wound.

  “Dude, it’s a flesh wound, buck up.”

  Levont gave a weak smile as he dug his finger into his skin, trying to staunch the flow. Rebecca, a little too familiar with gunshot care, ripped a sleeve off and, keeping her head low, packed the wound.

  Then a bullet caught her forearm, taking a piece of seat upholstery on the ricochet. Lopez took the next right.

  “How’s he hitting us?” she asked, clutching the wound.

  Brandt searched the skies above them. “The steeple.”

  The spire of the San Francisco Cloister stood high above the small town. The sniper had direct aim of wherever he wanted.

  “In there!” Brandt yelled, pointing to a vacant shop. Lopez didn’t hesitate as he crashed them through the glass window of the store.

  He braked hard, stopping them short of the back wall.

  Everyone listened as the motor rumbled, waiting on their next orders.

  Levont gulped, finally getting the bleeding under control. “Now what?”

  “Now?” Brandt responded, helping Rebecca tighten the packing. “We wait for Davidson to do his job.”

  * * *

  How the hell did the sniper get positioned so quickly? Did it matter, though? He had, and now Davidson had to get him out of the steeple.

  With Brandt and the others safely stowed, at least until the town police found them, Davidson took in a deep breath and let the tension course out of his muscles. His hands were tired. His fingers were nearly numb. And he was up against one of the best snipers he’d ever seen. Worsening his slim odds, he was on the wrong side of the cloister to take a kill shot.

  Again, none of that mattered. Only the shot mattered. He may have just one. At maximum, two shots. There was no time to find adequate cover. Once Davidson shot, he would be a target. He had to make it good.

  Not just good, but perfect.

  Davidson blocked out the shouts from the streets. He ignored the revelers fleeing the town center. He ignored everything but the light breeze playing in his hair and that steeple.

  Of course, he couldn’t see the sniper. The man was too well hidden beneath the retaining wall. And Davidson noted that the sniper had secured his rifle’s muzzle so there wouldn’t be any shooting the barrel out of the way.

  Once again, he was going to have to get inventive. Davidson let the world slip away as he aimed. His heartbeat became his guide. His breath a rhythm to mark time. Then he let loose the shot.

  It hit the rope of the bell precisely midway. The cord frayed but did not give. Davidson ejected the shell casing, jerking the bolt to load the chamber, as the Disciples’ sniper turned the muzzle of his rifle toward Davidson. Too bad the sniper had secured it so tightly to the ledge.

  Davidson fired again, hitting the rope in exactly the same spot, snapping it in half. The huge bell fell from its assembly, clanging loudly. So loudly Davidson cringed. Imagine how the sniper felt.

  Disoriented, the man nearly fell off the ledge. Davidson fired, but the shot went wide as the wind kicked up. Before he could recover, the sniper jerked his rifle from its mooring, sliding down the roof and out of sight.

  It wasn’t a kill, but it did get the sniper out of play. Davidson swung his scope around to see Lopez peel the car out from the shop and toward their third rally point.

  Time to get out of Cuellar.

  CHAPTER 25

  ══════════════════

  Cuellar, Spain

  8:29 p.m. (CEST)

  Frellan sat on the balcony of their hotel room as he watched the townsmen repair the damage along the bulls’ path. His team waited until sundown so they might slip into the dark and meld together with the forest. Their heads held in shame. There was no need to rush their exit. The girl was gone, with no way to track her.

  Centuries of contacts now useless. Yet somewhere in his heart, Frellan still held hope. Their enemies could not keep the Messiah’s location a secret for long. God’s will would force her from hiding. It was Her time. It was his time to find her. He felt it in each scar. Each tattoo. Each branding. Even in defeat, he cut a symbol into his flesh. That of a bull to remind him always of his mission in God’s name and grace.

  It was hard to concentrate on the sweep of the bull’s back, however, as Benedicto chatted casually with Monnie. The two acted as if the Messiah had not been snatched from their grasp, headed into the unknown.

  Instead, the two spoke of ancient religion. Monnie shared such secrets with the priest. Words that had only been spoken within the walls of the sanctuary for millennia. He might have protested if Benedicto’s execution was not hours, if not minutes, off.

  Mikhal stood in the shadows of the hotel room. He looked his same stoic self, except for a rather large bruise across his forehead. For all of Frellan’s failings, Mikhal’s were twice that. Yet the Master still seemed to favor him. He had let the Ten Commandments slip through his fingers and now the Messiah. How long could the man hope to stay within the Master’s good graces?

  A rattling brought Frellan back to the table where the priest’s cellphone bounced on vibrate. Benedicto picked it up and read the text, then laid it back down.

  “No
w, where were we? Rehoboam?” he asked Monnie.

  “The text?” Frellan prompted, tiring of having to bend to this small man’s whims.

  Benedicto shrugged. “My contacts believe they will head to Morocco.”

  Frellan squinted against the late-afternoon sun. “Why not to Rota? It is the closest military installation with American jurisdiction.” Morocco was many hours farther.

  “Non-extradiction,” the priest explained. “We don’t believe they will head back to the States. Brandt—God bless his Catholic soul—wishes to protect the girl.”

  Protect her? To stay within the cobra’s reach? The sergeant was either full of hubris or truly deluded if he thought he could stay ahead of the Disciples in their own backyard.

  After his phone danced a bit more, Benedicto reported, “We will have a helicopter at Bilbao. Once we have firm word of Brandt’s destination, we will give pursuit.”

  The priest then smiled at Monnie. “Seriously. I must know more of Bathsheba’s son.”

  Frellan went back to his carving, letting the blood flow freely.

  He wished God to know his unwavering faith.

  * * *

  Rebecca let the soft clattering of the rail train lull her into relaxation. Out the window, Lourdes streaked by. Vakasa was curled up next to her, playing quietly with a string of bull’s tail. Wonder where she got that.

  “Just a few more hours,” Brandt said, hugging her.

  To what, though? Rebecca almost asked but stopped short. It was bad enough Brandt was running from his own government. That they were taking refuge in a non-extradition country until they could figure out how to protect Vakasa long-term.

  For now, she enjoyed their almost leisurely trip as they crossed from Spain into France. Davidson and Levont also took the opportunity to stretch their legs across the seats, getting some well-deserved rest. The only one not relishing his downtime was Lopez. He was still sulking. Over Talli’s defection or the fact Brandt wouldn’t let him steal a plane, Rebecca wasn’t sure.

  Talli’s defection. Actually, it wasn’t a defection at all. They’d never known Talli or Imel or whatever his name was. She could remember him stepping next to Vanderwalt—with Vakasa at his side, a wide smile on her face.

  Vakasa.

  Rebecca started awake, disoriented and near panic. She reached for the girl in her arms, but it was just a backpack. She’d been clutching a backpack. Trying to get her bearings, Rebecca glanced around the private compartment. They were on a train, but the men weren’t relaxing. Instead, they were assessing, checking, and loading their weapons.

  “You okay, babe?” Brandt asked as he stuffed another gun into his bag.

  “Yeah,” she answered automatically, even though she was pretty sure he knew it was a lie. Instead, she felt like her right arm had been ripped off. She’d only known Vakasa for a few hours, yet Rebecca could swear she’d given birth to the girl. It ached to not have her by her side.

  “We’ll get her,” Brandt reassured, slapping a clip into his sidearm.

  Rebecca gave a wane smile as the train slowed. She looked out the window. Instead of Lourdes, they were pulling into Barcelona. A major metropolitan city. A city that would have the goods they needed to mount a mission to follow Vanderwalt and Vakasa.

  They had given their tickets to Morocco to a young Portuguese couple in exchange for this private compartment headed to the coast. Once again, they were totally off the grid.

  “Everyone’s got their orders straight?” Brandt asked.

  The men nodded in unison.

  “Lopez, get us something fast, and by fast, I mean fast.”

  The corporal’s eyes dilated. “Commercial fast or experimental fast?”

  “I mean fast fast.”

  This was one of the reasons Brandt had chosen Barcelona. He’d explained that the city had one of the few aviation research facilities in Europe.

  Lopez raised his hand to Levont. “It is on.”

  The point man slapped Lopez’s palm. “You know it.”

  Brandt turned to her. “You are sure about Jerusalem?”

  “I only got a brief glance at the second half of the map,” Rebecca explained “but yeah, it did look like Jerusalem.”

  As the train pulled to a full stop, the men stowed the rest of the gear. When finished, Brandt took Rebecca’s hand. “Remember, until we rendezvous at the airport, we’re just a vacationing couple. Keep your head down, though, to avoid the cameras.”

  Yeah, Rebecca wasn’t going to have any trouble with that. Not with worry for Vakasa so heavy on her heart, but stepping out into the train’s aisleway with Brandt, Rebecca smiled brightly. Whatever it took to get to Jerusalem as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  Another alarm went off. If Bunny hadn’t lost count, that was number five. Stark’s ten firewalls weren’t looking all that many now a day.

  “Why aren’t they on the train in Lourdes?” Prenner demanded. He then turned to Emily. “And where the hell did Vanderwalt take the girl?” When neither of them had adequate answers, the lieutenant turned on Bunny. “Well?”

  Bunny threw her hands up in exasperation. “You tell me.” First the Brit’s betrayal. Then Brandt going radio silent again. Why could nothing ever go linear with those men?

  “If someone would shut up for a second,” Stark said, then had to break off as he worked on the latest breach, “I think I know where the girl is.”

  “What?” the three said in unison, leaning over the tech.

  “Back it up,” Stark complained. “Except, of course, for you, Bunny.”

  The kid did like the occasional side boob action. And if he’d found Vakasa, Bunny would give it to him. “The girl?”

  “Yeah,” Stark said, bringing up a map of Europe and Africa. There were a bunch of dots. Like, a bunch of dots. None of which seemed to make any sense.

  “Not seeing it, Stark,” Prenner complained.

  The tech then highlighted the area of the Congo. “Let’s look back seven years…” Most of the dots vanished, leaving a large square marker over the Congo. “That is the Kalemie earthquake. A six-point-eight.”

  “So?” Emily pressed. Vanderwalt’s actions had hit her the hardest. Whatever casual elegance the woman had retained over the past days had vanished. The CIA operative was cranky and not afraid to show it.

  “So?” Stark said. “I think that is the moment of Vakasa’s birth.”

  Bunny sank into the seat next to Stark. Prenner and Emily still seemed confused.

  “You might as well tell them,” Stark prompted Bunny.

  She looked to him with a new appreciation. “How did you know?”

  “Please, Cuellar?” the tech chided. “A Congonese girl going to the heart of Black Madonna country? Come on. I’m a Googling god.”

  Bunny turned to Emily and Prenner. It was time to come clean. She would need their help, and to help, they needed to know the full truth. “Stark is right. We—Rebecca and I, and apparently the Disciples—believe Vakasa is the female Messiah prophesized by the tablets of the Ten Commandments.”

  Emily, then Prenner, sat down.

  “Whether you believe it or not, Frellan and now apparently Vanderwalt do.”

  “What’s this got to do with earthquakes?” Emily asked, seeming slightly less shaken than the lieutenant.

  Stark picked up the strand of logic. “Philosophically, who cares? Geologically? That girl tends to make the ground shake—a lot.” Bunny watched as Stark brought back up the hundreds of dots. “These are all of the three-point-zero earthquakes in the Congo region over the last seven years. Anybody see a pattern?”

  Bunny shook her head. She hadn’t realized Africa experienced so many earthquakes. It was like LA out there.

  Stark pealed away dot after dot to reveal a set of quakes that seemed to unfold in a linear pattern. “If, for theoretical purposes, we mark the six-point-eight as Vakasa’s birth, we have got this set of quakes that occur well off the major fault lines and continental
rifts.”

  “You can’t be saying that earthquakes follow the girl?” Prenned asked.

  The tech looked to Bunny, who answered for him. “No. He is saying that Vakasa creates them.”

  “Whoa,” Emily said, “I’m a little used to how you guys roll, but this—”

  “This is only the tip of iceberg,” Stark said. “Let’s fast-forward to last week.” He pointed out a 3.3 quake. “That one is within minutes of Brandt getting shot.” Without waiting for anyone’s response, Stark went to another point. “That one is approximately the time Rebecca and Vakasa were captured by Frellan’s men.” He whisked to screen to the next point. “And that one is when the crocs attacked.”

  “The Congo is a very geologically active area,” Prenner tried to explain. “Those could all just be aftershocks.”

  Stark shrugged. “Okay, then how about Egypt? You are seriously going to tell me that an aftershock reached several thousand miles away?”

  “This is all speculation and—”

  “Then speculate about this…”

  The tech brought up a new screen. It showed small quakes across the Mediterranean. In a line across the Mediterranean. “These microquakes are exactly in line with his plane’s flight path. Stark then overlaid this map with that of a plane’s trajectory. They were a direct match.

  “I think Vakasa is leaving us bread crumbs,” Stark finished.

  Bunny was glad she was already sitting down.

  * * *

  Davidson trotted up to the private hangar, his new gear in tow. It looked like the rest were already loaded onto the plane, with the exception of Levont, who was packing their gear into the hold. Davidson tossed him a bag.

  “Got a couple more for you.”

  “Don’t know how much more it can hold,” Levont said. “This plane is lean.”

  Lopez came out of nowhere and took the bag from Levont. “No, this ‘plane,’ this Marchetti SF Five Hundred, is not just the fastest, most sophisticated plane to ever grace the world, it is the Porsche of planes, it is a true work of art, and I won’t have you scratching her.”

  Levont put his hands up in defeat. “Sorry, man. I’ll take care of your girl.”