Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  Tox peered through the mostly crumpled windshield, surprised to find them right-side up.

  Haven. He jerked toward where she sat limp. Her head dangling. “Haven.” He reached for her. Panic ripped him a new one, seeing the blood on her temple. No. This couldn’t happen. Not again. “Haven! Haven, you okay?”

  She moaned, pulling upright. Blood streaked the side of her face, but she opened her eyes. Groaned. Touched her temple and cringed.

  As an ounce of panic slipped away, he shuddered. “Anything broken?”

  “I . . .” She stretched her back. Rolled her shoulders and grimaced. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “We need to get out of here. Can you walk?”

  “Yeah.”

  Through the windshield crushed nearly to the hood, movement caught his attention. Cole snatched the handgun from the console where he’d stowed it and kicked out what was left of the door. He climbed into the open, weapon down and to the side, as he stared across the open field of a park at a bearded man in sunglasses, a Fedora, black pants, and a blue shirt coming toward them. Tox didn’t trust him, but then, he wouldn’t trust anyone right now.

  “You okay?” the man asked.

  “We’re good.” He motioned Haven out of the vehicle.

  The man was still coming. “That was some cartwheel your car did. You sure you’re okay?”

  “We’re fine. Stay back. I smell petrol,” Tox lied, maneuvering to the other side. The passenger door was banged up. The window missing altogether. He tugged on the handle, but it broke off in his hand. Tox tucked the weapon in his belt, shooting a look to the still-advancing man—and used both hands to pry it open. The door groaned and creaked.

  “I could help.”

  “He’s trouble,” Haven said, echoing his thoughts.

  Tox spun and snapped his weapon up, immediately noticing the other man had reached behind himself. Sunlight struck the side of his face—and his mangled ear. Tanin.

  Tox fired.

  Tanin dove into the brush as Tox fired off another round, reaching back to Haven and guiding her out of the vehicle.

  A firm but gentle touch to his sides told Tox she was behind him.

  “Phone.” Haven bent toward the car.

  “Wait. No—”

  A shot pinged off the car. Tox pushed to the side so she could use the car door for cover. He squeezed the trigger, never taking his eyes off the field. He didn’t have a clear line of sight, but he couldn’t afford to ease off.

  “Go go go!” Tox hissed to Haven, motioning her away. “Buildings—!” He hustled backward, taking shots. Watching as Tanin low-crawled away from them along the rolling incline, probably jockeying for better position.

  Each time he saw a patch of blue, Tox fired. Over his shoulder, he instructed Haven not to stop. He backstepped toward the sound of her steps, then fired off two more rounds. When he could no longer see Tanin, he considered making a clean run for it. But Tanin was probably waiting for that.

  Gauging the distance, Tox spotted Haven vanishing behind a half wall. Good. But where was Tanin? Either way, this wasn’t Hollywood—he didn’t have an endless supply of bullets. He had to get to cover. About to pitch himself toward the building, Tox spotted him.

  His heart slowed, the moment frozen as Tanin emerged from between two trees with a rifle. Sniper rifle. Where had he gotten that? Must’ve made it back to his vehicle to retrieve it.

  The distance was too far for Tox to hit him. But not too far for Tanin to take a sniper shot. This is it. He was going to die. Get Haven killed just as he had her sister.

  Sirens screamed through the day.

  Tanin hesitated, his gaze shifting marginally in the direction of the emergency vehicles. Tox seized the distraction. Threw himself to the wall. Even as he did, his periphery recorded Tanin snapping up the rifle. Taking aim.

  Wind roared against his ears. His pulse skyrocketed. Each breath thumped. He expected a bullet to shove him into the ground. Face-plant him into cement. Any millisecond now . . .

  Another step. It felt like a nightmare slowing him. Another breath. Wind. Step. Breath.

  Crack! The report of the weapon reached his ears.

  He dove for the wall. Rammed hard against it. He rolled and pitched himself down the alley. How he hadn’t eaten lead, he didn’t know. But he wouldn’t stop to figure it out.

  A dozen feet ahead, Haven skidded to a stop and glanced back at him.

  “Go! ’Round the corner.”

  She lunged that way without complaint. Three bounding strides carried him into her. Momentum threw him against her. He crushed her. Rotated away and dropped against the wall. With a strangled cry, Haven lunged into his arms. He caught her, hugging her tight, cradling her head. Breathed her in, startled at the immense relief spiraling through him. She wasn’t dead. They couldn’t stay here, but he was selfishly unwilling to let her go, having felt Tanin’s scope burning into his skull.

  “We should go,” he said, wrenching himself from her arms and the guilty pleasure of holding her.

  She gave a shaky nod, and they hurried on, weaving through shops and streets. Ten minutes later, he tapped her shoulder. “You have the phone?”

  Haven handed it to him as they continued, making several dizzying turns just to keep the pattern chaotic and untraceable.

  Tox dialed Ram. “Tanin just tried to take us out.”

  “I’ll meet you at the cemetery.” Ram gave him directions to the site.

  “Copy.”

  Walking through a parking structure, he ended the call, removed the battery—tossed it. Then the SIM card. Cracked it. They stepped into the sunlight and he spotted a fountain. He hurried over and tossed the SIM card in. After a nod to Haven, he hesitated when he saw the bloody spot on the side of her head. Touched it. “How’s this?”

  “Painful,” she murmured, wincing. “But no worse than a migraine.”

  He cupped the back of her neck, feeling for heat and swelling. “Your neck hurt?”

  “A little.”

  Holding her head between his hands, he thumbed her eyelid up. Stared into her pupils. Good reaction. Probably too much. But he also saw the exhaustion, the adrenaline dump from the accident. She was barely holding it together, and it tugged on his conscience. “Hey.”

  She met his gaze and almost instantly her eyes glossed.

  He cupped her face. “We’re going to be okay. But we have to keep moving.”

  She nodded, squeezing away the tears.

  Though he’d like to give more reassurances and take time to recover, the clock ran against them. “We’ll have a lot of company soon.” Sirens shrieked closer as if confirming his words. “We need to cover about three klicks. Can you handle that?”

  Again, she nodded, and they headed southwest, aiming for the old cemetery. Forty-five minutes later, they passed under the ornate scrollwork of an iron sign heralding the name of the graveyard. Tox aimed for a crypt and guided Haven onto a small stone bench. “Rest.”

  Haven shuddered. “Graveyards creep me out.”

  “Won’t be long,” he said, eyes on the road. Silence hung between them as Tox monitored every car that passed.

  “Last funeral I attended was yours.”

  He shifted, his gaze yanked from the road for a second.

  “Your mom . . . I always saw her as a woman of iron—so strong. A lot like you.” She sighed. “But the way she clung to my hand that day . . .” She shook her head, wiping the blood from her fingers.

  His mom had always favored him, though nobody looking in on their family would’ve known. She was truly an iron woman. She’d been hard on him most of his life but nothing like the driving force that was his father.

  “Why was your death faked? You were already in prison.”

  What would it be like to off-load the anvil of the past? Live without it pressing in on his every thought and move? If anyone in this world could be trusted with the truth of what he’d done, it’d be Haven. She could probably forgive him for
most of it. But not all. And telling her would violate the conditions of the contract. “I can’t answer that.”

  “You struck a deal, right? For your team?”

  Surprise stabbed him. How could she possibly know that?

  She smiled with a lazy shrug. “I followed your case . . . very closely. It was interesting that you were dead one day and the men had their records expunged the next.”

  “It wasn’t quite that fast.” Tox stared at the pebbled walk, trying to shove the past back where it belonged.

  “I knew you weren’t guilty the way they said.”

  If only she did know. Haven believed in a man who no longer existed. He’d violated his own moral code buying the writ of freedom for his guys.

  Tires crunched against rocks.

  Tox glanced at the gate. Silver sedan. The driver—“Ram’s here.” He cuffed her elbow and helped her to her feet. She was steady but looked worse for the wear. Yet no complaint. They climbed into the sedan, but Tox wouldn’t relax till they were back at the cottage. Tanin had nearly killed them in a car.

  “You two look like roadkill,” Ram said as he pulled into traffic.

  “We feel like it.” Tox adjusted the visor to block the piercing sun.

  “Tanin?”

  “Lost him.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling dirt and pebbles—and a sticky spot. How had he done that? He brushed off his jeans. “Arrow in the hood. Would’ve hit Haven if I hadn’t seen it coming. How he found us . . .”

  Ram steered onto the rutted, pebbled road to the safe house, which was more like a small country estate.

  “Saw Attaway at the hospital.”

  “That’s a good place to see him.”

  Tox snorted at the innuendo. “He said we needed to be looking at someone else for the AFO leadership. Said Kaine and Abidaoud were distractions.”

  “Yeah?” Ram huffed. “Name?”

  “Naftali Regev.”

  “Regev?” Ram’s voice pitched. He shook his head, swerving to avoid a pothole. “No way.”

  “You know Regev?”

  “Yeah. I do. And he’s a member of the Knesset.”

  The Jewish parliament. Why would Barry blame him? Then again, hadn’t Israelis put them on that wild Codex chase? “At this point—until we know more—I don’t think we can afford to eliminate any suspects. The AFO seems to have their hands in a lot of pots, and we’re battling the New Black Death.”

  “Regev is a distraction. Trust me. If—” Ram slowed. Scowled through the windshield as he drove up to the side of the house. “What is she doing?”

  Armed with a satchel and a lightweight jacket, Tzivia was loading up a vehicle with Dr. Cathey.

  “Are they going somewhere?” Ram hopped out and started toward his sister. “What are you doing?”

  “I think I found something,” she said. “I think . . . I think it’s a piece of the Codex.”

  “We already know about that,” Ram snapped.

  “No, another one.”

  Tox started. “Seriously? How?”

  “A blog post. I had an alert set up for about fifty keywords related to the Codex and censers—it was a long shot, but one result seems promising. An NYU student posted about her grandfather and words he rambled. Words from the same passage related to those censers.”

  Tox hesitated. “That’s a big coincidence.”

  “Not a coincidence,” Dr. Cathey said. “I believe God is orchestrating this. We are flying to New York to meet the young lady, but in earnest, I want to meet this man, especially if he’s who I think he is.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Benyamin Cohen.” Dr. Cathey’s eyes brightened. “His father was a rabbi at the synagogue where the Codex was kept in Syria—before they fled back to Israel.”

  “We have to catch our flight,” Tzivia said. “We’ll be back in a couple of days.” They folded into a small compact car that whirred out of the drive and bumbled onto the country road.

  “Let’s hope they find something, since we have little,” Ram said.

  “We’ve got enough to take Kaine, though, right?”

  Ram nodded toward the house with a rueful smile. “Ready to plan a kidnapping?”

  “First,” Maangi said as he stepped into the afternoon sunlight, “Tox and Cortes are both undergoing thorough medical evals to make sure they’re okay. And”—he indicated Tox—“to make sure his head isn’t more messed up than it was.”

  ****

  — New York, New York —

  As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac, Tzivia grabbed her phone and pulled up the information for Alison Kagan, the granddaughter who’d written the blog post. Tzivia hit Call. It rang . . . rang . . . rang. Why wasn’t she answering? “That’s odd.”

  “Remember, dear,” Dr. Cathey said, “she’s not champing at the bit to meet you like you are her.”

  “But I told her this was urgent. Told her what time our flight landed.”

  Once their plane eased to the jetway, Tzivia bounced on the balls of her feet as the passengers idly removed their carry-ons from the overhead bins. Row by row they filed out. Taking their ever-loving sweet time. She growled. A breath away from the find of the century and she couldn’t even get off the plane!

  “Easy,” Dr. Cathey said around a laugh.

  They’d deliberately not checked luggage so they didn’t have the added wait of getting their bags before customs. It took forty minutes to get through, and another twenty minutes in the long queue for taxis before they were headed to Alison’s apartment. Tzivia called again—no answer. The drive was another forty-minute waste, thanks to New York traffic. They’d lost almost two hours so far.

  Bouncing her legs and emitting another growl only gained her a pat on the knee by Dr. Cathey, along with his comment that God was trying to teach her patience.

  “If He existed, He would know it’s futile to teach me patience.” Again, she dialed Alison. Still no answer. “Where is she?”

  Another chuckle. “Be at peace,” he said. “The answers will be revealed in their time.”

  “That sounds like another faith comment.” Her phone rang. Tzivia lifted it and sucked in a breath before answering. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Khalon, this is Alison Kagan. Sorry I missed your calls, but maybe you should visit another time.”

  Tzivia’s heart tripped. “Miss Kagan, we’re already here in New York.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “My grandfather is in the hospital. He . . . he’s dying.”

  Grief tugged at Tzivia, reminding her that her mission wasn’t what everyone lived for. “I’m terribly sorry.” But still . . . the plague. “I hate to sound insensitive, but could we meet you there? Is your grandfather conscious?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure that’s a good idea. He’s touch and go.”

  “I know I sound insensitive, but we’re trying to stop a plague. It’s contained in India, but if we don’t stop it, it could spread across the world very quickly.”

  “What does my grandfather have to do with that?”

  “I could explain if we talked. In person.”

  Alison sighed. “Maimonides.”

  Tzivia gave the taxi driver the name of the hospital, and he made a turn, delivering them fifteen minutes later. They slipped into the darkened room, a lone wall light casting shadows across the floor. Though the old man in the bed lay wrapped in white—sheets, blanket, pillows—strangely, he still wore a tattered jacket.

  Alison hugged herself. “I think this might really be it . . .”

  “The jacket.” Tzivia couldn’t help but mention it. Wasn’t it unhealthy, unsanitary?

  “Oh, I know.” The twenty-something girl wrinkled her nose. “It’s so ugly, but he insists on wearing it. He grew so agitated and belligerent, the nurses said to let him have it. Once they put it back on him, he quieted. Has been like this ever since.”

  “Ali . . . son . . .”

  The girl spun back to where her frail grandfather lay. “Sabba.” She sat
on the side of the bed and leaned across him, brushing a strand of silver hair from his face. “I’m here, Sabba.”

  Aged eyes resonated with a startling youthfulness. “Come,” Benyamin Cohen rasped with a weak wag of his hand to Tzivia. “Come.”

  She lowered her bag to the floor and slipped to the other side of the bed. “Mr. Cohen, I’m—”

  A smile flickered across his leathery face. “He said”—he wheezed—“you would come.”

  There was gentleness carved in a lifetime of experiences and hardships about this man. He drew her in like a calming, warm breath across her chilled heart. Crazy. So crazy. “Who? Who said I’d come?”

  Wavering, he reached for her. Tzivia offered her hand, and soft fingers curled around her palm.

  “Yes,” he said, eyes closed and smiling again. “Yes, you must”—wheeze—“take it.” Another wheezing breath. “God knows.”

  At those words, Tzivia sucked in a breath. Resisted the urge to leap back. She shot a look at Dr. Cathey, who closed the distance between them.

  “Old friend,” Dr. Cathey said, “do you have a leaf of the Codex?”

  Mr. Cohen smiled. Laughed. Laughed harder. He coughed, grabbing his chest as it deepened, forcing him to fight for a breath. His fingers dug beneath the lapel of the grubby black coat. “Cannot hide from Yah”—wheeze—“weh.”

  His fingers worked beneath his jacket. He grunted. Scowled.

  “Sabba, are you hurting?”

  But he kept digging.

  “Open . . . take it . . . so I may die . . . in peace.” He reached for Tzivia again, and she held his hand. But this time, he tugged her close, forcing her to lean over the rail. He placed her hand against his chest.

  She cast a helpless glance at Alison and Dr. Cathey.

  “Sabba,” Alison chided, her tone filled with awkwardness.

  Yet through her own reaction and confusion, Tzivia felt something. She frowned and looked a little closer at his jacket. “Does he have papers with him?”

  “Papers?” Alison frowned. “No.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Cohen said. “Leave me in peace.”

  “Do you mind if I check?” Without waiting for permission, Tzivia lifted his lapel. The hospital gown had no pockets. “That’s strange. I heard . . . something.” She smoothed the jacket—and heard it again. She turned the lapel.