A shadow in the door and a shout sounding the alarm had Giuseppe arcing to the left, drawing his bow and loosing the arrow as soon as the target was in sight, a seventh guard down, his mental math of the ever evening odds providing little comfort since two of their available swords remained at a distance.
If only we were four! We would stand a chance, especially with God on our side!
Shouts from within were heard followed by the pounding of feet on the steps as the remaining soldiers rushed to their comrade’s aid, hopefully numbering no more than the six of the original thirteen they had been promised. Giuseppe drew two arrows, splitting them on either side of his bow, and as the first man came around the corner and burst into the courtyard, he held his fire, a second quickly joining the first.
He loosed the arrows, the first one taking out its target, but the second missing by an embarrassing amount, this shot one Giuseppe had never really tried beyond having some fun.
And it had never worked.
Apparently God does not guide my foolish hand tonight.
He swung his bow over his shoulder, drawing his sword from its sheath as the second man advanced, yelling for the others to join him as he drew his own blade.
He dropped as an arrow pierced his neck, the blood spurting out in a rhythmic pulse as he gurgled an unheard warning to his comrades. Giuseppe still wished the extra two swords were at his side, but for the moment, his Master’s plan was working. And if the intelligence provided by the young Roberto and Vincenzo were accurate, there should be only four men left. Again sheathing his sword and retrieving his bow, he fired his final arrow, removing the tenth man, when a chorus of shouts erupted from inside the tower, near the top.
A chorus that sounded like far more than three men.
The sound of swords clashing echoed through the openings of the stairway and Giuseppe felt his chest tighten as he realized his master had been discovered. Cries from above had him frozen, then as the swordplay continued, he realized his master must still be alive, bravely battling his enemy, while his slave stood, doing nothing.
Giuseppe charged forward just as a group of men numbering at least half a dozen poured from the entrance, looking for accomplices. Giuseppe skid to a halt, shooting his final arrow. He was about to draw his sword when he turned to see the first four victims near the gate, not thirty paces distant. Two arrows streaked silently into the courtyard dropping two more of the men as Giuseppe turned and sprinted toward the bodies. As he reached the nearest one, the one who had crawled, he yanked the two arrows from the corpse, spinning as he placed a used arrow in position, taking aim at the first man.
He let his fingers open, the sinew snapping, sending the arrow through the air at an impossible speed, embedding itself in the belly of its unsuspecting victim. As the body crumpled to the ground he fired his second shot as another pair of arrows from his partners outside hit their targets. He scrambled toward the next body, pulling at the arrow buried deep in the man’s shoulder, but it snapped.
Roars of anger erupted behind him as he rushed toward the last two men, those originally on guard and eliminated by Marco and himself at the beginning of this entire fiasco. The sounds of swords continued to give him hope for his master, but he was quickly losing it for himself. He pulled the first arrow from a guard’s belly, rolling on his shoulder and onto his knee, his bow at the ready as he fired at the nearest guard, four of them now charging at him. He dropped as Giuseppe yanked at the last arrow available to him but it wouldn’t give. One final yank failed and he tossed his bow aside, drawing his sword as the first attacker arrived almost immediately joined by two others.
He was surrounded on three sides. He kept his back to the gates of the compound, parrying the first blow from his nearest attacker. An arrow skittered across the stone, missing its intended target, but it was enough to cause all three of his enemy to look up for just a moment.
He swung, slicing the belly of his attacker open, his innards pouring out as the man screamed in agony, dropping his sword and instead focusing on pushing his intestines back inside as he quickly bled out. Enraged, his two remaining friends charged forward. Giuseppe parried, shoving the first attacker’s sword upward then dropping to a knee as his blade swung wide and high, then forcing it down and below the man’s guard, slicing his leg in two just below the knee as the final guard rushed in from behind. Giuseppe looked over his shoulder and saw the man’s sword held high over his head begin to drop for the death blow.
Giuseppe leaned forward, still on his knee, his sword carrying through the down stroke interrupted only by the leg it had just sliced through. He twisted his wrists, redirecting his weapon up in a desperate attempt to parry the final blow, when he heard a thump and saw the man’s eyes bulge wide in shock as he fell on Giuseppe’s blade, his own flying from his hands and clattering to the ground. Giuseppe shoved the now twitching corpse off him, freeing his sword with a yank, the body rolling to its side then stopping, an arrow protruding from the back.
Giuseppe jumped to his feet, sword at the ready, but found himself alone, surrounded by corpses, the swordplay at the top of the tower continuing. He pushed himself forward, exhausted from the battle he had just endured, but determined to reach his master before it was too late. As he stumbled toward the entrance to the mosque he readied his sword, trying to catch his breath as best he could.
Plunging through the entrance, he found it empty save the bodies of those eliminated earlier. The stairs that wound around the outside wall of the tower were to his right. He mounted the first step and began the long climb, the sounds above him getting louder as he neared the battle. The stairs were narrow, barely a man wide, which was probably why his master had been able to survive for so long, but the sustained battle must have him exhausted.
As he rounded the stairs he readied his weapon, uncertain when he might encounter the first of the enemy, or how many there may be. It was when he saw the back of the first that he heard the footfalls on the steps behind him, and the realization that he was now surrounded with no hope of escape set in.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Present day, one day after the kidnapping
National Clandestine Service Chief Leif Morrison sat behind his desk, reading something on his computer screen as Chris Leroux and Sherrie White sat quietly, waiting to find out why they had been called in. It was strange that they were both here. Leroux was an analyst and Sherrie was a field agent. Usually the two domains didn’t mix enough to be in the same briefing, and with Sherrie being a junior agent, her active status not even a year old, Leroux had to wonder why just the two of them were here.
The Assembly?
The thought of some breakthrough on the mysterious organization he had been hunting for longer than he cared to admit with no success had his heart race a few extra beats. It was his side project, known only to him, the Director, Sherrie and his best friend, Special Agent Dylan Kane. It was Kane that had exposed the organization that he was now under orders to identify the members of, but they were so secretive he had had no success to date.
Except for that one damned message that I’m not allowed to open!
Morrison pushed his keyboard away and turned to the pair of lovers, something Morrison knew of and thankfully permitted. Leroux quite often wondered what he would do if Morrison ordered them to end their relationship since it was against Agency policy.
He glanced at Sherrie through the corner of his eye. He could never ask her to give up her dream. She loved it too much and he had no idea what she would do if she were forced to give it up.
I’d quit.
He could get a job elsewhere easily enough. His computer skills would have him in high demand. In fact he’d probably double or triple his salary almost instantly. His eyebrows climbed slightly at the thought.
Triple?
“I’m sure you’re dying to know why you’re both here.”
They nodded in unison.
“President Jackson’s son was kidna
pped today.”
“We saw the news flash,” said Sherrie, exchanging a look with Leroux as he knew damned well she was remembering what had happened after that, just as he was.
“You’re going to be read-in on a file that is above Top Secret. Once you know what’s really going on, Mr. Leroux, you’ll be our lead analyst on this. I’ll want you to hunt for anything that will lead to the recovery of Grant Jackson. Agent White, you’ll be our liaison with the Special Forces team that has been assigned should they be needed since you’ve worked with them before.”
“Delta Team Bravo?”
Morrison nodded.
“Now you are all aware that President Jackson was murdered by his Chief of Staff, Lesley Darbinger. Here’s what you didn’t know.”
Fifteen minutes later Leroux knew exactly why he could never quit this job, even for triple his salary.
Inside the Red Mosque, Karakorum, Mongol Empire
March 29th, 1275 AD
Giuseppe, surrounded with enemy guards ahead of him and reinforcements arriving from below, decided it was best to attack up and perhaps save his master, rather than try to save himself with the easier downward attack. He thrust forward with his sword, embedding it in the back of the unsuspecting soldier ahead of him, swiftly withdrawing the blade. Pulling the body with his left hand down the stairs, he plunged forward with his blade at the next guard, then the next, their bodies collapsing, the final one with a surprised cry that had his compatriots farther up the stairway turn, finally realizing they were under attack from behind.
As they turned, Giuseppe, blade soaked in blood, thrust again, but this time was parried by the now prepared guards, guards who had the advantage of being higher on the stairs. Giuseppe could hear the swords continue to clash above him, though they seemed to have slowed, his master obviously tiring. He could only imagine Marco’s exhaustion, his own tremendous, though the total time of his own engagements far shorter.
His master’s persistence only inspired him more. He rapidly ceded several steps, and as his closest opponent rushed down after him, Giuseppe suddenly stopped and shoved forward, catching the man off guard, the sword sinking several inches into his stomach. The guard grabbed for the wound with his free hand, his sword slashing down onto Giuseppe’s blade before he could remove it from the man’s flesh.
The man cried out in pain as his stomach opened from his own mistake. He collapsed forward, causing Giuseppe to cede several more steps then spin as he heard the footfalls of the reinforcements reach him.
An arrow flew past him, embedding itself in the approaching guard’s neck, another swiftly following, slicing into a man’s shoulder causing him to drop his sword. Giuseppe smiled, his relief palpable, as it was the two altar boys, Roberto and Vincenzo, who had been rushing toward him, disobeying their orders.
Thank God!
Words weren’t exchanged, Giuseppe instead raising his sword over his head, his energy renewed at least momentarily, dropping it rapidly, cleaving the man’s other shoulder. He collapsed with a cry and Giuseppe pressed their advantage. As the next guard rushed forward to attack, Giuseppe ducked and one of the two new arrivals fired an arrow into the man’s chest. They continued forward, this method working as the staircase was so tight, the guards behind couldn’t see how their compatriots were being felled.
Within minutes they were near the top, the clash of swords continuing ahead, but the shouts and grunts of their enemy far fewer than earlier. Thirteen had been the estimate, but Giuseppe was certain it was closer to thirty.
Suddenly he heard his master cry out in pain, his voice unmistakable above the fray. Giuseppe charged forward, thrusting his sword into the back of the next soldier, all having turned to press their apparent renewed advantage above. The man cried out as Giuseppe ran him through, reminding the others of the continued threat, but as Giuseppe rounded the corner he found only two men opposing him, one swinging his sword toward Giuseppe, the other about to plunge a sword into Marco.
“No!” screamed Giuseppe, sidestepping his attacker and ducking under the blow, the thump-thump of two arrows taking the man out ignored as Giuseppe rushed forward, his sword extended in front of him as the final guard’s blade swiftly swung toward Marco’s prone body. Marco looked over at his servant, his expression one of shock at seeing him, then rolled away from the stairs, the upper level of the tower a floor containing nothing but a pedestal in the center of the room.
The guard’s blade smacked hard into Giuseppe’s, sending it clashing to the stone floor, his hands shaking from the blow. The man’s hands were skilled, his own recovery almost instantaneous as Giuseppe stumbled forward, hitting the floor along with his loose sword. He looked over at Marco as the man raised his weapon high above his head. Marco slid his sword across the floor toward Giuseppe who rolled, grabbing the weapon and swinging it across his body, batting the rapidly descending death blow aside.
The man suddenly groaned, his eyes bulging as he dropped to his knees, then flat on his face, an arrow embedded in his back, Roberto rushing onto the topmost level along with Vincenzo. Giuseppe scrambled across the floor to his master.
“Are you okay?” he asked, searching for a wound, but finding none.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“But you screamed. I thought you were wounded!”
“The behemoth stepped on my foot and nearly broke my toe,” replied Marco, getting up. “I fell backward and they almost got the best of me before you arrived. It’s good to know you can’t follow orders.”
It was said with a smile and Giuseppe took it for what it was. “Would you rather I wait for you down in the courtyard?”
Marco put his arm around his servant, then pointed to the center of the floor and the pedestal. “This is what it is all about.”
Giuseppe turned and gasped, a feeling of terror and uncertainty gripping him at what he saw.
In the center of the pedestal, surrounded by candles whose light seemed to pool together in the idol’s eyes, sat a crystal skull, exactly as he had imagined it in his dreams.
Colonel Thomas Clancy’s Office, The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Present day, one day after the kidnapping
With Maggie at the barbecue, Colonel Thomas Clancy’s outer office was empty. Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson rapped on the closed inner office door, still dressed in his Bermuda shorts and gaudy Hawaiian shirt with genuine bamboo buttons. He glanced down and quickly buttoned it up, covering his rock hard abs and chest—exposed to impress Maggie, but he figured the effect would be wasted on the Colonel.
“Enter!”
The Colonel didn’t sound happy. Dawson opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” he said, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of Clancy’s desk, the orders of the day always casual within the Colonel’s office unless brass or Washington were present.
“What the hell’s good about it?” muttered Clancy, jabbing his finger at a file on his desk. “Do you realize I’m supposed to be fishing right now? Fishing! Just me, a boat, a hat, a damned fishing rod and a cooler of beer. And some damned fine cigars my wife doesn’t want me smoking!” Both their eyes darted to the empty space on his desk that used to be occupied by his humidor.
“Sorry to hear that, Colonel,” replied Dawson, knowing the man too well to be worried that he was actually upset at him. Clancy was a soldier’s soldier. Dawson knew he always had his back, regardless of what politics might make him say publicly. He believed in “no man left behind”, he believed that The Unit was a family, and that to lose a member of the family was unacceptable.
“You heard about the kidnapping?”
“Just did.”
Clancy pushed the folder toward Dawson. “Take a look.”
Dawson took the file and flipped it open.
“Skip to the photos,” said Clancy, grabbing a pencil and sticking it in his mouth, the placebo a poor substitute for the real thing.
Dawson
flipped through the file and found several crime scene photos. A Caddy with a dented front end and crushed rear end. An SUV that had rammed it. Two bodies and then something that had him stop, his chest pounding.
“Are we sure about this?” he asked Clancy, still staring at the enlarged photo of a man’s wrist, the symbol tattooed on it far too familiar for his liking.
“Absolutely. Both bodies have the tattoo on the inner left wrist. It’s identical to London. And their MO is the same. Non-lethal force, using tranquilizer darts instead of bullets.”
Dawson pursed his lips, flipping back to the two men. “Should have used bullets by the looks of it.”
“Agreed.”
Dawson flipped the folder closed. “So why am I here?”
“Because you’re one of the few in the Special Ops community who knows what really happened. The powers that be think this is going to get ugly, and our type of expertise might be needed, so they want people who already know the truth, rather than have to read-in more that don’t.”
“My team?”
“Take only those who were there from the beginning.”
Dawson nodded. “And where are we going?”
“Get your asses to Langley, you’ll liaise with one of their people and deploy as necessary.”
“Posse Comitatus?”
Clancy pushed another folder toward Dawson. “By order of the President of these United States, suspended. You are free to operate on American soil so long as it relates to the recovery of former President Jackson’s son.”
“Understood.”
Clancy waved his hand toward the door. “Now get out of here. I just might be able to squeeze a few hours of fishing in.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dawson, standing. “Good hunting.”
The Venice Code (A James Acton Thriller, Book #8) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 6
