by J. M. LeDuc
“All of your men are down.” He heard Omar scurry under his desk. “Is that how the leader of the Brotherhood acts, like a trapped mouse?”
Omar stood and wiped the dirt from his throbe. He had the look of someone who would die with dignity . . . until he saw Alana. “How dare you desecrate my home by bringing a woman here,” he raged.
Alana stepped forward, waving her gun at him as she walked. “I’m more than just a woman,” she said, “I’m a Jewish woman.”
Omar shook with hate.
“But,” she continued, “you can think of me as your executioner if that makes you feel better.”
Brent moved a chair towards Omar. “Relax and take a seat. The two of us need to have a conversation.”
“If the Ambassador can stand, so will I.”
“Have it your way,” Brent said.
Alana made her way around the room, cuffing the unconscious guards.
Defiance shown in the old man’s eyes. He wanted to goad Brent. “What do you wish to talk about? The way my men killed your wife?”
Brent ignored the barb.
“Or maybe the way the Brotherhood infiltrated your precious organization?”
Again Brent did not respond.
Omar shook with rage. “Speak to me!” he screamed.
Brent wiped his hair back from his face and stared into Omar’s eyes. “You have to pay for your crimes.”
“I supposed you and your whore are going to make me pay?” Omar asked.
Alana lurched forward and backhanded Omar across the face. She yanked the old man’s hair back, pulled a knife from her belt and placed it against his throat. “Call me that again,” she seethed, “and I will cut out your tongue.”
Brent slowly placed his hand on top of Alana’s to calm her. As he felt her muscles start to relax, he slid the knife from her hand.
Beads of perspiration dripped from Omar’s forehead as he tried to compose himself.
“My plan,” Brent said, “is to bring you in front of a court of law and let them decide what the best punishment is.”
“And what court would that be?” Omar asked. “The American system that is wrought with dishonesty?”
“Actually, I thought I would give you a choice,” Brent said, “you can either be brought before an international court in Geneva and be tried for your crimes of terrorism, or you can stand in front of a court of your peers.”
“My peers?”
“A court of religious leaders. Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist, and Christian. They would decide your fate.”
Omar erupted in laughter. “I will take my chances before the religious council. The leaders you speak of are weak and can be twisted to my will.”
Brent approached the man, cuffed him and said, “So it is spoken.”
Outside al-Qal stood a regiment of the Swiss Guard. Omar began to scream when he saw them. He now knew his fate rested in the Vatican, a political and prison system, which was known for its harsh rulings. He looked back at Brent with a glint of defeat in his eyes.
“You will spend the rest of your life next to what you have fought for all your life,” Brent said. “The Vatican prison is next to the some of the greatest religious treasures this world has. I have arranged for them to be placed in a glass room just outside the cell you will be in. You will be forced to look upon them without being able to touch them until your dying day.”
With his final words, he delivered Omar to the Swiss Guard and he and Alana turned, walked away and didn’t look back.
CHAPTER 69
Two days later, everyone stood around the mausoleum as President Dupree was about to speak. It had been thirteen years since his wife lost her battle with pancreatic cancer. As much as he missed her, he was glad she wasn’t alive to witness the horrors brought about by the Omega Butcher, especially their own daughter’s capture and fight for survival.
He looked at Scarlet, a woman now, a strong, resilient, patriotic woman. He then turned and smiled in Brent’s direction. The man who saved his family more times than he could count. He knew that Brent had saved his daughter when he himself was powerless to do so.
A tear rolled down his cheek. A tear of gratitude, a tear of happiness, a tear of cleansing.
He thought about what Brent and I talked when he returned from his ‘sabbatical.’ He cleared his throat. “It’s true,” he said, “we must all go back to the beginning to find our way. We must go back to the beginning in order to understand our present and choose our future.” With that introduction, he wiped his tears and began his speech. “We have come here to honor Sarah Stetson Dupree, a woman who was more than a wife and a mother,” his eyes met Scarlet’s, “she was our rock. It took something Brent said to help remind me of that fact and for that I will be eternally grateful.” He opened his Bible and read, “Isaiah 28:16. ‘So this is what the Sovereign Lord says: See, I lay a stone in Zion, a tested stone, a precious cornerstone for a sure foundation; the one who relies on it will never be stricken with panic.’ ”
He closed the book and spoke of his wife and their life together for the next fifteen minutes. The president then thanked everyone for taking the time out of their lives to commemorate an important day in his life.
As everyone was leaving Arlington National Cemetery, Joan took Brent’s free hand. His other was clutching a cane. “Will you go with me?” she asked.
“You know I will.”
They broke off from the rest and walked toward where Joan’s mother, Monica, was laid to rest.
“I haven’t been here since she died,” Joan said.
“I know,” Brent answered.
“You know why?”
“Yes.”
Joan was hoping for more from Brent, but he was short with his answers.
“Is that all you’re going to say? No words of wisdom. No sage advice from the one President Dupree just called the cornerstone.”
Brent smiled. “You caught that did you?”
Joan bumped him with her hip. “Nothing gets by me, you know that.”
Brent stopped walking as they neared Monica’s gravestone. “Then, you know why I am saying so little. This is between you and your mom. Only you have the words needed to make everything right,” he touched her head and her chest, “in here and in here.”
Joan took a deep breath and turned to look at her mother’s stone, but she didn’t move.
Brent took her face in his hands. “If you think she knew anything about what happened to you, let’s turn and walk away.” A tear rolled down Joan’s cheek. With tenderness, Brent thumbed it away. “But, if you know in your heart that she was blind to it, that she knew nothing about it, then you owe it to her and to yourself to make this right.”
Joan looked up at him and nodded.
“I’m going to visit Chloe’s grave while you go talk to your mom,” Brent said.
“Closure,” Joan said.
“Something like that,” Brent responded.
Joan walked to the gravesite and knelt in front of the stone.
When they came together again, Joan’s eyes were red and puffy from crying, yet there was a radiance about her. She hugged Brent tighter than she had ever and called him ‘Dad’ for the first time.
“I will always love you as my daughter,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”
Joan looked and saw Alana holding Faith in the distance. She waved at them and looked at Brent. “A new beginning,” she said.
He didn’t answer. He just took her by the hand and went to join the others.
EPILOGUE
Two years later, Brent, Alana and Faith walked hand and hand as they crested a hill. In front of them stood a magnificent church. As they walked near, a group of priests stopped what they were doing and bowed in reverence. The clergy wore the garments more suited for rabbis than priests. St. Mary of Zion was steeped in
Hebrew tradition. Although these religious men were followers of Christ, they still followed the laws of Moses.
The three walked through the church and out the back door where they laid eyes on a small stone building adorned with a small cross, the original St. Mary of Zion church. In front of the church was a small fenced-in courtyard in which an old priest sat. He was known as the Guardian. The one true keeper of the Ark of the Covenant.
The Guardian stood and opened the gate to the courtyard as Brent approached. The other priests began to mumble when they saw this gesture. No one but the Guardian was allowed inside the sacred courtyard. Brent stepped through the gate as Alana and Faith waited.
The two men embraced.
“No one since your great-great grandfather has been inside this grotto except the Guardians.”
Brent nodded in reverence.
“But as it was for him and my grandfather, it is for you and me. Exceptions for the Ambassador are made.” He looked around as if he was searching for something. “I hoped you would have brought the Ark home to rest, but you alone will know when it is time.”
“My reason for coming,” Brent said, “was to tell you that it is not time. Too many are still in search of the Ark for all the wrong reasons. I do not know who will return it or when it will be returned, but I wanted to tell you personally.”
Brent expected to see sadness in the man’s eyes, but instead, he saw joy. The Guardian was looking past Brent and his vision was locked on to Faith’s.
She waved.
He squatted down and asked her to come to him. She looked up at Alana who told her it was all right. Faith walked inside the gate and took her father’s hand.
The Guardian used a soft hand and brushed her hair away from her face. “And the child shall be called Faith,” he whispered.
Brent squatted next to him. “How did you know my daughter’s name?”
The Guardian smiled. “She looks just like your great-great grandmother and her name was Faith.”
Brent was surprised. He had never known his great-great grandmother’s name nor had he ever seen her picture. Brent squatted next to the two of them. “But that’s not all, is it?” he said.
The Guardian wiped Faith’s hair from her face once more. Along her hairline was a small red mark, a five-pointed star. “She wears the mark.”
“The mark?” Brent said.
The monk nodded. His words became breathy. “The mark of the one who will change the world.” He stared into the eyes of Brent. “The mark of the one who will usher in a new beginning, the mark of the Cornerstone.”
SIN
The Sinclair O’Malley Series
BOOK ONE
J.M. LeDuc
CHAPTER ONE
The smells of the fish pier permeated Alex Bell’s olfactory senses as he stepped out of the black sedan: salt, suntan oil, diesel fuel and the fresh catch of the day. If he inhaled deep enough, he could smell something else—death. His eyes darted back and forth, quick to survey his surroundings. He walked toward the beach and could hear the sound of the sand crunch under his black wingtips. The seagulls and palm trees gave the perception of tranquility. Everything he smelled, heard and saw should have brought back fond memories of his childhood, but they didn’t. Approaching the yellow crime scene tape, he knew his memories of the Florida Keys had been washed away for good—washed away by the death of three of his best agents and two Coast Guard officers.
The local police chief, Ezekiel Miller stood just on the other side of the crime tape. Alex pulled his credentials out of the inner pocket of his suit coat and flashed them toward Miller. The chief briefly glanced at the badge, took the well-chewed toothpick out of his mouth, and slid his mirror-lensed imitation Ray Bans down his reddened, bulbous nose.
“Federal Bureau of Investee-gation, huh?” He looked around at the small town fishing pier. “You boys must be slow. Guess you must of caught all them bathrobe wearin’ sand niggers that bombed the good ole U.S. of A.?”
Internally, the police chief’s language or lack of it scratched Alex’s conscience like nails on a chalkboard. Externally, his appearance didn’t change one iota. He slipped his badge back inside his jacket and continued to stare at the pear-shaped, potty-mouthed, star-wearing inbred.
Alex lifted the crime tape and stood close enough to the sheriff to tell what shade of gray his ‘white’ tee-shirt was. “One of the things we’re taught during our training is to multitask,” he said.
Chief Miller cocked his head to the side like a confused hound dog.
“You know,” Alex continued, “like being able to eat fried foods and smoke cigarettes at the same time. That sort of thing.”
Miller tossed the toothpick on the ground and popped a new one in his mouth. He poked Alex in the chest with his finger. “You makin’ fun of me?”
Alex glanced down at the sheriff’s finger and back up to his sunburned face. “Before things get out of hand, let’s get three things straight.” He held up one finger. “I want to be here as much as you want me here, so the sooner you can answer my questions, the sooner we can end this ‘friendship.’ Two,” another finger went up, “I’m here because five men have washed up on the shore of your little hamlet. All dead and . . .”
“We can’t help it when tourists try to go fishin’ in bad weather and capsize their boat.”
Still holding up his two fingers, Alex was beginning to lose his cool. “They didn’t drown, asshole; they had been drugged and shot in the back of their heads from close range.”
Miller moved the toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right using his tongue. “Them bodies just washed up yesterday, how you know all that?”
“It’s called forensics. Now, what I would really like is for you to show me exactly where you found the bodies and then I want you to take me to where their boat was impounded.”
“Wait,” Miller smirked, holding up two of his own fingers, “that’s only two, what’s number three or did you miscount?”
Alex removed his sunglasses and snarled at the sheriff. “Three, you ever poke me again or touch me in any fashion, I will rip your finger off and shove it so far up your ass, it will take you a month to shit it back out.”
He didn’t wait for a response, just turned toward the water and walked towards the CSI officers.
CHAPTER TWO
The funeral service was well underway when the minister was interrupted by the deep rumbling of a motorcycle’s exhaust. As it neared the gravesite, a few mourners shook their heads, and a few others stifled a grin.
Frank Graham, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation kept his head down, but peered over his shades at the rider as she killed the engine of her 1952 Harley Davidson Panhead. The late morning sun reflected off of the bike’s white pearlescent paint and onto her mirror-lensed sunglasses as she swung her leg off the saddle. She stood next to her bike, removed her helmet, and shook out her long, dirty-blond hair. Arching her back to stretch, her curves caught everyone’s eyes.
A voice chirped in his earpiece. “She’s headed your way.”
The preacher looked back down at the good book and finished reading from Psalms 23. Finished, he closed the Bible and looked around at the hundreds of people who were gathered. “Even though Alex didn’t have any living blood relatives, I would be remiss by saying he had no family.” He spread his arms at the sea of humanity. “His family is here paying tribute to his life and mourning his passing.”
When the service was over, the blond biker walked toward the casket, removed the black glove from her right hand and with a tenderness that was antithetical to her demeanor, placed a white rose on the mahogany coffer.
She stood and turned from the gravesite and faced her past.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Agent O’Malley.”
She removed her sunglasses and eyed the man from top to bottom
and back again. “Nice suit. Did ‘Men In Black’ have a wardrobe giveaway?”
She replaced her glasses and attempted to leave. She didn’t get ten feet before ‘clones’ of the first blocked her path.
“Is this the game we’re gonna play, Frank?” she asked.
“This isn’t a game, Agent. I need you to come in and I’m willing to do what is necessary to make that happen.”
Sinclair O’Malley stood eye-to-eye with Frank Graham, ripped her glasses off and burned a death-stare into his flesh. “I’m no longer an employee of the bureau or the United States, so cut the bull with the agent crap.”
Graham didn’t blink, he just smirked. “You left us no choice, Sin. You broke every directive you were given. You went so far outside the system, you’re lucky you weren’t brought up on charges.”
Her jade green eyes pierced Graham’s shell. “What’s with the ‘us’ shit? It was your testimony that put the nail in my coffin.” She snapped her head toward the other agents. “In fact, Alex Bell was the only man with enough balls to stand by me. The rest of you empty-sack bastards can go to hell.” She again addressed Frank Graham. “I came to pay my respects to the only man worthy of them. Now if you will excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
“It’s not that easy, O’Malley,” Graham said. “We have unfinished business and I need to take you in.”
Sin took a step toward her bike. Again the agents moved in, each with their hand on the grip of their holstered weapons.
“That’s not a card you want to play, Frank,” she said. “Do you think I would just show up alone?”
