Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  Light stabbed the ebony blanket beyond. Dust particles danced in the beam. A room!

  Whoosh!

  As another section of wall gave way, Tzivia shoved back and turned away. Coughing, she blinked quickly to clear her eyes.

  “Tzi!”

  “I’m okay,” she said around another cough. “We need to stabilize this. It’s all damp and collapsing. My cave-in must’ve weakened the supports or something.” A sweet, pungent odor filled the tunnel, nauseating her. “Ugh.”

  “Look out below,” Noel called.

  With a hefty thump, a rope ladder dangled behind Tzivia. Noel’s frame filled the hole topside. Once down, he screwed up his face. “What is that smell? It reeks!” He steadied the ladder as Basil, one of the interns, clambered down, too.

  Flashlight in hand, Tzivia wiped her face. Something caught her eye in the darkened room. She froze. Something had moved. A dark shape. Shadow? Tilting her head, she bent over the partially destroyed wall and sucked in a breath at what she saw. Dust caught in her throat and made her cough. Basil started coughing, too.

  “Should we go back up?” Noel asked, his lanky frame towering over her.

  “The air’s stale, but we’ll be okay for a few more minutes.” Tzivia pointed. “Look.” Shoved up against the far side of the earthen room sat a chest, maybe two feet by two feet. Frayed rope handles didn’t look like they’d hold its weight. “Come on.” They climbed over the crumbled wall, causing more of it to collapse. She cringed at the damage but allowed the lure of discovery to lead her on.

  “I’m not feeling so great,” Basil muttered as they squatted.

  “There’s something stamped in the lid.” She wasn’t ready to admit it looked like a Templar cross. “Let’s get it to the sorting tent.”

  Noel nodded, grabbing the sides of the chest. He lifted it.

  Crack! Pop!

  “No!” Tzivia cried as the bottom fell away.

  Three objects hit the ground.

  Sucking in a disbelieving breath, she lifted one of the items in her gloved hand. “Noel!” Exhilaration spiraled through her veins as Basil aimed his flashlight at it. “I think . . . this is a Hebrew miktereth.” Though most censers were made of pottery, these were bronze and roughly six inches in length, with a handle supporting a small cup-like space for the burning incense. She traced the markings. A giddy laugh surged as she looked at the other two censers on the ground. “I can’t be sure of the date down here—it’s too dark and we need to test scrapings—but they look Bronze Age.”

  “But . . . bronze?” Noel asked, pointing to the metal censer.

  “True.” Most miktereths of this age were made of pottery. “Except. . . .”

  “Did we find it?” Noel’s voice was but a whisper. “Please, tell me we found it—this is where the Israelites camped, isn’t it?”

  She laughed, looking up at him with history in her hand. “I believe we did.”

  ****

  — Two Days Ago —

  Okomu Forest Reserve, Edo State, Nigeria

  “If you do this thing, do not think I will come save you.”

  Slinking through the humid jungle, Cole “Tox” Russell almost grinned at the words of his “conscience” vibrating in his comms piece. “If you’re right,” he subvocalized, leaning against a tree and scanning the dense vegetation through his thermal binoculars, “there won’t be anything to save.”

  “It is a bad idea.” His own personal Jiminy Cricket came in the form of a six-foot-five Nigerian named Chijioke Okorie.

  “It’d be boring if it wasn’t. Remember, three minutes.” Their self-imposed assurance that no tangos came out of there alive.

  Ambush. They’d agreed the probability was high. As in more likely than not. Enough to tell anyone with half a brain not to engage. But Tox was missing that half. This half had him stalking through the jungle because of a twelve-year-old girl. No way could he sit back on the savannah, watching cheetahs outrun gazelle, knowing his niece, Evie Russell, was in the hands of sadistic guerillas.

  Not after the promise he’d made in a pool of blood.

  So here he was, shirt soaked to his chest and boots rubbing blisters into his ankles and toes, working his way north to the camp. Wiping away the sweat, he scanned the forest, alert. Nerves thrumming.

  “It is not safe, Ndidi,” Chiji huffed.

  Tox nodded to no one but himself. His friend had it right—this wasn’t safe. In fact, it could end his life. But securing the objective would fulfill that promise.

  He glanced up at the canopy, where fading sunlight poked through defiantly. Sweat slipped down his temple, traced his jaw, and raced along his neck. This had to be done. And even with the calloused warning of no help from his friend, Tox knew Chiji would come. Tox had made the mistake once of thinking Chiji only warred with Bible verses. He could still feel the thwack of the stick across his back, unprepared for the skilled kali strike that face-planted him in the West African desert.

  Skulking, Tox made his way around the tree trunks. The guerillas had made it too easy and too obvious. Yep, a trap. Within a few hours of the hovel he called home—where he’d managed to stay hidden for the last three years—and Evie just happens to end up held hostage by some rogue outfit with connections to DC?

  Right.

  Despite the infinitesimal possibility that Evie was actually here, Tox couldn’t ignore it. Could not risk the potential threat against her life.

  “Two targets, twenty yards north of your position,” Chiji said from his nest in one of the tree houses overlooking this narrow swath of forest. Tox bet the national park hadn’t imagined their perches for bird watching and appreciating the unique environment would come in handy as the vantage point for a mission.

  Tox moved east to flank the targets. This was stupid. Really stupid. Anyone setting him up would also know it was stupid to try. He wanted to believe nobody was asinine enough to play chicken with the life of a child. Especially not with him involved. He’d more than earned his “Toxic” moniker.

  Snap!

  The sound of breaking branches sent Tox into the buttresses of a nearby kapok, its gnarled roots looking like the foot of a monstrous dog, nails digging into the soil. Shoulder pressed to the trunk, he peered around, keeping his movements slow and fluid as the palmate branches swaying above. Nothing sudden to draw attention. Using his legs, he pushed up.

  A shadow moved.

  He dropped, locked onto the target. Was there only one? Prostrate, he keyed his mic. “Count?”

  “One.”

  Only one? Tox stared through the heavy forestation at the shape. Why weren’t there more? He could take out this tango and nobody would know. He was almost insulted.

  Regardless—no need to waste a life. Tox slid south around the kapok buttresses. Swiftly darted westward, directly into the path of the perimeter guards.

  The ten-meter base of the trees and their root system made navigating the area tricky. But also assisted him. Trip alarms would be more visible. The placement more obvious. Tox hiked up on the thick buttress of another kapok. From the larger limbs hung bulbous seedpods surrounded by a fluffy, yellowish fiber much like cotton. Resistant to water but highly flammable. He skirted from one buttress to another, using the roots to protect himself from trip sensors, and watched the thick trunks for higher-placed sensors.

  Crack!

  Bark spat at him.

  Tox dropped to the ground, unholstering his Glock 22.

  “You’ve been spotted.”

  Understatement of the year. Since the enemy knew he was here, no need for skulking. Tox hunch-ran along the perimeter. After several switchbacks, he was hopeful he’d lost the guard who’d spotted him.

  A dozen yards ahead, the outer rim of the camp they’d reconned with the long-range scope Chiji now used finally came into view. Beyond it, a hastily assembled, thatched-roof squat sat beneath a massive kapok, ripe with fruit. Good protection and cover. But within the building—cement. At least two feet thick. Too
formidable to get thermals and heat signatures. Security had been tight. He’d have preferred bribing a local to get eyes on the target, but time didn’t allow that. Their timeline had been way too short.

  “Moving in,” he subvocalized, switching his gun for his KA-BAR Kraton-handled Mark I with a serrated edge. He rushed up behind the first sentry, who was armed with an M16 and a handgun, hooked an arm around his neck, and severed his carotid. Tox lowered the guard. A boot knife glinted.

  Tox slung the assault rifle and pistol into the dense foliage. He tucked the knife in his boot. The crunching of twigs pushed him into a low crouch. The thick stench of cigarettes polluted the air. Didn’t these two know smoking got them executed by Boko Haram? By Tox Russell, too.

  He slipped behind a tree and took aim, aware that even silenced shots could be heard. No choice. He eased back the trigger. Fired two shots at the first man, taking him down. He acquired the second and neutralized him before the guy could figure out what was happening and call for help.

  “Two more en route,” Chiji warned.

  Tox scurried forward, ready to silence them. When their forest camo came into view, he launched himself at the first soldier. Slammed a hard right into his nose. Heard the bone crack, ramming into gray matter. He spun to the second—

  A weapon muzzle stared back. Tox stilled for a half second, then hooked the man’s leg and swept him off his feet.

  Crack!

  The bullet went wide as the man’s head hit a buttress with a sickening thud. His neck lay at an awkward angle. Tangos neutralized, Tox sprinted toward the structure. Inside, he’d be on his own. Chiji couldn’t guide him.

  He stared at the door that hung awkwardly to the side. It’s a trap. But if it wasn’t . . .

  “Going in.” Tox slid his M4A1 around to his front and took in a quick, measuring breath. Blew it out. Shimmied around the wall. Then lifted a flashbang from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the space where the flimsy door gaped.

  He jerked back. Waited.

  Shouts preceded the concussive boom by two seconds.

  Tox rushed in. Went right. Scanned the scene as he moved to the corner for protection. The interior served one function—to conceal the cement shelter. A small table with knocked-over tin cups was the only barrier between him and two disoriented guards. Hands over their ears, they writhed. Tox put them out of their misery.

  “Two tangos down,” he muttered, swinging around so his back wasn’t to anyone entering the hut. His gaze hit a steel door. Moment of truth. Who was behind Door #1? He slid along the wall and palmed the handle.

  Locked.

  Tox pivoted. Drove the heel of his boot against the door. It bucked but held. He kicked again. This time the lock surrendered. He shouldered the door open.

  Tox stepped across the threshold. Darkness devoured him. He flicked on his night vision goggles and pushed to the corner. When the wash of green draped the area, Tox bit back a curse. Empty. “Trap!”

  As a shadow moved, he snapped to the right.

  White light exploded across his vision.

  Grunting, he ripped off the NVGs, knowing the attacker was coming at him. Temporarily blinded, he silenced himself. His pain. His panic. And listened.

  To his right a subtle shift of air. Tox hesitated. Pain exploded across his temple. He flipped backward. His head cracked against the cement wall.

  Singular focus was all that would keep him alive right now. He rolled and slid the boot knife free. He came up, his vision clearing, his ears ringing, and sighted the attacker. On his right. A flurry of kicks.

  With lightning-fast reflexes, he drove the knife into the man’s leg.

  “Augh!” The man twitched but came unyielding, determination gouged into his Caucasian face. And he hadn’t shot Tox. Which proved this was a trap meant to capture him. Just like they’d suspected.

  The idea lit fire down Tox’s spine. He again drew out his KA-BAR.

  His attacker produced one of his own. Matched determination and weapons. But Tox had been fighting for his life for the last three years.

  The man lunged with a stab.

  Tox deflected. Grabbed the man’s wrist. Pulled him forward and rammed his elbow into the guy’s face. At the same time, the attacker jammed a knife-hand into Tox’s back—his kidney. Tox howled.

  They both stumbled. Tox twisted around just in time to deflect a knife from his throat. He leapt backward, his abdomen exposed. The blade sliced his stomach. With a strike, the man nailed Tox’s wrist, sending the knife clattering. Searing pain from the cut nearly disabled his thinking. He thrust the fleshy part of his hand against the man’s carotid.

  The man dropped, gasping for air.

  Pain vied for Tox’s attention. He flung around, searching for his knife. Found it—in the hand of the man grinning around bloody teeth.

  “Shouldn’t have come,” he growled, sounding one hundred percent American.

  “Yeah,” Tox gritted, lifting a stick. “You shouldn’t have.”

  The man lunged with the KA-BAR. Tox slapped his arm away, cracked the stick against his wrist. Then drew back and snapped it at the right side of his neck. At the last minute, Tox diverted. Struck his head.

  As a massive whoosh ignited the air, the man tumbled forward. Chiji had held up his promise to send an RPG into the shelter if Tox hadn’t emerged in three minutes. If it hadn’t been for the cement and steel, they’d be toast.

  Tox cringed as superheated air burst through the shelter. Oxygen sucked out. With the kapok around them, the forest would quickly become an inferno.

  He considered his attacker. No doubt a brother in arms. Doing his job. Like a loyal dog returning to his vomit. No man left behind.

  Tox grabbed his attacker’s ankles and dragged him out of the hut. Dropped him at the entrance then limped into the forest with only one thought: They’d pay for this.

  2

  — Day 1 —

  Washington, DC

  President Galen Russell strode to the dais in the White House briefing room. He gripped the lectern and peered out at the bay of reporters and journalists. “It is with the deepest regret that I confirm the death of former vice president and current ambassador to the United Kingdom, Howard Lammers. He died tonight from wounds sustained in an attack three days ago as he and his wife, Lorraine, attended the National Theatre in London. My condolences and prayers, as well as those of all Americans, are with the family and loved ones devastated by this horrific act.”

  The president stared into the cameras, clearly affected by the incident. “At this hour, we have few details, but we are working closely with the British authorities to locate those responsible and deliver justice. Thank you.”

  As the press secretary took the podium to field questions, Barry Attaway fell into step beside the president, who headed out of the congested room. The entourage trailing him, which included the DoD, CIA, and other three-letters, made its way down the hall to the Oval Office.

  Out of sight of the reporters, Galen looked to Barry. “Anything new?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “Keep on it. I want to know who did this, and I want them to face the fullest measure of our justice.”

  As he’d said a dozen times in earlier meetings. “Of course, sir.”

  Galen turned to his administrative assistant. “I’d like to talk to Lorraine Lammers.”

  The fifty-something woman nodded, lifting a phone. “I’ll try again.”

  “You said you were going to handle this,” a voice hissed near Barry’s ear. He tensed and turned, staring into the gray eyes of Rick Hamer, director of the CIA’s Special Activities Division.

  After a quick glance at the president making his way back to the Oval Office, Barry whispered, “Relax.”

  Hamer stopped, his eyebrows rising to his hairline. “Relax?” He’d been a Force Recon Marine and wasn’t used to being rebuffed. “We have another dead American. How many people do they have to hit before—”

  “First,
” Barry said, making sure the president didn’t hear, “it’s still fresh. We don’t have proof—”

  “Seriously?” Hamer growled. “You’re going there? And where is this guy you said could handle it?”

  Barry tried to shake off the nerves tightening his gut. “En route.”

  The fire in Hamer’s eyes warned he didn’t believe Barry. He pursed his lips and gave a terse nod. “He’d better be. We need this stopped. The president—”

  “Cannot be implicated.” Barry felt the thunder in his chest louder than the bombs in Iraq. “He and the United States must be kept clean—”

  “Which is why we gave you a week. You promised it’d be taken care of. It’s not.”

  “Two days. My man is bringing him in.”

  “Wait—does this guy even know what he’s after?” When there wasn’t an answer, Hamer muttered something under his breath. “You should’ve left this to the big dogs, Attaway.”

  “Why? So more can end up like Lammers?” Attaway saw he’d overstepped, saw the anger that pushed past the director’s tough persona. He needed to soothe him. “We’ll get this assassin.”

  “We need results, not talk.” Hamer’s gaze raked Barry over live coals. “Where are you getting this guy anyway? How does a chief of staff have connections big enough for an op like this?”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I am worried.” Hamer cuffed Barry’s arm, angling in. “I let you have this. My men were ready, but you said you had a way to keep the president clean. You may want him for a second term, but with screw-ups like this—”

  “Barry.” The president stood at the end of the hall, his dark brow knotted as he glanced between the two of them. “Ready?”

  Saved by the bell. “Sir.” Barry unhooked his arm and moved to the president without another word to the SAD director.

  They rounded the corner and Galen glanced at him. “Hamer looked ticked.”

  “He always looks ticked, sir.” At his own office, Barry slowed. “I have to get some things taken care of before the next briefing.”