She placed them on the tray then gave her husband a peck. “It’s okay, dear, when you’re fully recovered I’m going to work you to the bone.”
Milton reached forward and grabbed her butt, dragging her into the chair with him. “Looking forward to it!” He bit her gently on the shoulder as she giggled.
“Stop, you’re terrible!”
He pushed her back to her feet and she fixed her hair. “Sorry you had to see that. My husband knows no bounds.”
Reading was grinning, never tiring of seeing friends happy. He just wondered if he’d ever find happiness like that. He and his ex-wife had a few good years, though those memories were so far in the past they were basically gone, the emotions of the events lost to the textbook summary his mind now stored. And the much rawer memories of Kinti were too painful to think of, the joyful thoughts almost always stomped by the memory of her painful death.
I’d rather be lonely all my life than experience that type of pain again.
“So you were mentioning the Triarii.”
The room became silent at Tommy’s words. Reading stared at him. “Excuse me? Where did you hear about them?”
Tommy’s stunned expression at Reading’s snapped question showed he knew he had overstepped some unknown line. “I’m sorry, I overheard your conversation when you were leaving the lab.”
“You should forget that name.”
Tommy flushed and Mai’s eyes were suddenly wide with worry. She pressed herself against him. “I, umm, I looked them up.”
“And I assume you found nothing.”
Tommy nodded.
“Good.”
“Until I poked around the dark web.”
Reading dropped into his seat, closing his eyes. “Bloody hell.” He sighed then looked at Tommy. “What did you find?”
“These guys are serious!” said an unleashed Tommy, eager to unburden himself with the knowledge he had apparently gleaned. “They’re headquartered in London. Did you know that the thing the professors were caught up in a few years ago was related to them?”
Everyone in the room nodded, much to Tommy and Mai’s surprise.
“Oh.” The wind in Tommy’s sails died. “Umm, what else don’t we know?”
Reading’s eyes bored into Tommy’s. “A lot, and it’s going to stay that way for your own protection.”
“Okay, umm, well, it might be too late for that. I decided to put some bots out there to watch for anything involving the UK that was unusual, and I found something.”
Reading wasn’t sure whether he should be angry with the boy or not. “What?”
Tommy fished a tablet from his backpack, tapping it several times before handing it to Reading. It showed a large number of links. “What am I looking at?”
“A bunch of reports coming out of Surrey, just outside of London, about a massive gun fight at an old estate.”
Reading felt his chest tighten and he exchanged glances with Milton and his wife before peering back at the screen, Tommy continuing.
“When the police arrived everyone was gone, just the bodies left behind.”
“Odd for the UK.” Reading turned to Tommy. “What makes you think this has anything to do with Jim and Laura?”
Tommy took the tablet and brought up a photo. “Look at this. It just hit LiveLeak, that’s why we came here.”
Reading looked at the photo of a dead body, then back at Tommy. “So, hardly remarkable.”
“No, man, you’re missing it. Somebody got shots of things before they cordoned off the area.”
“So what?”
“So what? So that means these are photos you’re never going to see. The state controls the message, and if the state doesn’t want the message to be heard, you’re never going to hear it. This”—he jabbed a finger at the tablet—“is the great equalizer. Unfiltered news, available to the masses, uncontrolled by the government and their corporate overlords.”
Reading rolled his eyes. “This better be leading somewhere.”
Tommy grabbed the tablet, using his fingers to zoom in on the photograph, then jammed it back into Reading’s hand. “What do you see?”
Reading glared at him then stared at the photo, now zoomed in on the dead body’s wrist.
And gasped.
It was the Triarii tattoo.
1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta HQ, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
A.k.a. "The Unit"
Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson stepped into the gym, the sound of the country’s best working out hard, music to his ears. He loved training, lived for it, and on most days while on duty and not deployed, his team, Bravo Team, could be found either exercising, training or studying. Not a man in the unit didn’t speak multiple languages, were masters at hacking, could shoot, toss, throw or hurl every manner of weapon imaginable, and operate any vehicle, whether car, boat, plane or transport vehicle, that they might encounter in the field.
They were Delta Force, officially 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, America’s best and most secretive Special Operations force, and the only military unit that could legally operate on American soil should the President deem it necessary, he having the power to suspend Posse Comitatus for this unit only.
They were lethal, they were dangerous, and they were dancing.
Dawson shook his head, a smile on his face as Jimmy and Niner danced in synch in the square circle, Atlas standing in one corner looking on in disbelief, Spock in the other, both with gloves on, there apparently a bout underway.
Dawson walked toward them, the rest of his team surrounding the ring. “What is this?”
Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung waved. “We’re the half-time entertainment.” Sergeant Gerry “Jimmy Olsen” Hudson spun, pushed his ass out toward Dawson, then smacked it with an “Oooh”, repeated immediately by Niner, who added a smack to Jimmy’s ass. “We’ve been practicing.”
“I can tell. Let’s see how that goes over in Raqqa. The ISIS boys will probably toss you off a building.”
Niner blew kisses to the clapping onlookers then daintily held the ropes for Jimmy to exit the ring. “A good USO show is what those boys need. They need to loosen up. All that killin’ and goat humpin’ has got to make a man tense.”
Dawson chuckled as the others gathered around him, Atlas and Spock leaning on the ropes. “I’ve got something, off the books, if anyone’s interested.”
Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James swept Spock’s feet from under him, the operator smacking the floor, hard. “I’m in. Not sure about him.”
Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman rolled onto his back, cocking an eyebrow as he stared up at Atlas. “Not exactly fair.”
“Life isn’t fair. You think just because BD starts to talk, the enemy won’t attack? I don’t think so.”
Niner leapt up onto the ring, grabbing the top rope and swinging over it, launching two feet squarely into the massive Atlas’ chest.
The man didn’t budge, Niner merely dropping unceremoniously onto the canvas.
And Spock.
Atlas feigned a shot at Niner’s face.
“Hey, not the face. I’m too pretty and besides, I plan on being a male model when this career is over.”
“Now that I’d pay to see.” Atlas reached down and hauled Spock to his feet, his massive muscles rippling, his nickname assigned in his early days when someone spotted him working out on one knee, a large medicine ball on his shoulder, Atlas Shrugged immediately coming to someone’s mind. It was a nickname Atlas bore with pride.
Niner helped himself to his feet, Atlas not offering a hand. “Huh, I didn’t know you swung on that side of the vine.” Niner bent over and smacked his ass, replaying the end of his dance. “How’s that? Feelin’ something?”
Atlas turned to Dawson. “Please, BD, if we go on an op, can we leave him behind?”
Dawson shook his head, the smile gone. “Fun’s over. Yesterday Professor Acton and his wife were kidnapped at gunpoint at the H
ome Depot in Annapolis. Several people were killed. Eye witnesses say those killed were the first to attempt the abduction, then a second group arrived, killed the first group, then took the professors.”
Niner whistled. “Christ, these two are just magnets for trouble. Who’s so hated that two groups try to kidnap them at once?”
Dawson continued. “Acton’s phone was destroyed and tossed out of the van, Professor Palmer’s was left at the scene.”
Jimmy, his nickname earned after someone learned he had been editor of his high school paper, sat perched on the edge of the ring. “Any contact since?”
“None, however Agent Hugh Reading—you all remember him”—nods from all around—“had a meeting with the Triarii—”
Niner groaned. “Shit, not them again?”
“Yup, one and the same. They are claiming that Martin Chaney has betrayed the organization and is behind their abduction. At this point we don’t know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are, but your mission, should you choose to accept it—”
Niner pointed at Dawson, looking at the others. “I like that.”
“—is to accompany me and try to effect a rescue.”
Atlas’ hand darted out, shoving Niner off his feet. “Do we know where they are?”
Dawson shook his head as Niner mooned Atlas. “No clue at this point, but CIA is going to start feeding us intel shortly.” Dawson paused, everyone becoming serious again. “This is off the books with the Colonel’s nod, so this is voluntary.”
Atlas stood up straight, his eyes squarely on Dawson. “That pretty lady has had too many bad things happen to her. I’m in.”
Spock stepped forward, joining Atlas. “Me too. Those two saved our asses getting us out of Saudi Arabia. I owe them one.”
Niner dusted himself off, standing beside Atlas. “Same here. If it wasn’t for them, I’d probably be in some Vietnamese prison.”
Jimmy opened his mouth, but Dawson waved him off. “Sorry, buddy, I can only take three. Red needs you and the others for an op.”
Jimmy frowned, clearly not pleased. “Any idea what?”
“You’re headed to Columbia to do some training.”
Niner punched Jimmy. “Shoulda spoke up sooner.”
“I was being polite.”
“What are you, Canadian?”
Dawson smacked his hands together. “Okay, say your goodbyes, get yourselves squared away, and be ready to leave on a moment’s notice. Hopefully we’ll get a phone call that they turned up at a romantic retreat, but with the Triarii involved, I think we’re not going to get that lucky.”
Northern Gaul, Roman Empire
November 1, 64 AD
Flavus swung his sword, slicing open the stomach of a filthy Gaul, stopping him in his tracks as he gripped at his innards spilling over his hands. But Flavus had already moved on, the battle continuing to rage, the Legion attacked in strength from all sides. The screams of the dying from both parties surrounded him, the pounding of hooves, the clanging of metal on metal, of fist on flesh, was overwhelming, and though his fellow Romans were holding their own, they were losing too many.
They would prevail tonight, hopefully, yet it wouldn’t matter.
They were too few to make it to Britannia.
It was time.
He glanced over at his legate, directing the battle from his command tent, the man calm through it all.
He would miss him.
“Triarii, with me!” he shouted, his sword raised high.
A roar rose from the teeming masses and a wedge of men formed around him, they already informed of what would happen should things look dire. They charged through the hordes of attackers, slicing through the lines like an arrow through a buck’s hide.
Something leapt through the air to his left. He spun to see a Gaul clear the line of men guarding him, swinging an axe. It grazed Flavus’ shoulder and he cried out as he swung his sword, cleaving the man’s head in two. As he continued forward, he reached behind him, feeling for the cloth bag carrying the skull, sighing in relief that it was still intact.
The brave warriors of the Triarii, the third and final line of defense of the Thirteenth Legion, carved through the enemy and reached the tree line, a rear guard forming to block any pursuers, Flavus and the rest charging forward, through the trees, encountering fewer and fewer of the enemy. They pressed onward, the din of the battle behind them growing faint until soon there was nothing.
Flavus signaled a halt in a clearing and they stopped, the Triarii that remained, less than thirty, forming a circle around him, though all eyes were on the distance, the battle casting an orange, flickering glow on the thick clouds overhead.
“I can’t believe we left them,” said one of the men.
Flavus felt the same, and though he was young, he knew this type of talk would do no good. “We have our orders. They sacrificed themselves for the good of Rome. Our mission is to get this skull to Britannia and to end the curse it has inflicted upon our home and her people.”
He began to strip off his armor and other accoutrements of the trade, leaving it in a pile, the others reluctantly doing the same. Within minutes, they appeared not as the most elite of Roman soldiers, but mere weary peasants.
Not worthy of attention.
Flavus turned to the men. “I know I am young and inexperienced, but by rank I am the senior officer.”
The most senior of the remaining Triarii snapped to attention. “Your orders shall not be questioned!”
The others all turned to face Flavus, snapping to attention, their shoulders square, their heads held high with pride.
Flavus smiled. “Good, I had no doubt. You are all the best Rome has to offer, and together we shall protect her from the cursed evil that this statue represents.” He raised his sword, pointing it toward the sky over the distant battle, the others joining him as they faced their comrades still being slaughtered. “We the Triarii salute our fallen brothers! May the gods protect the souls of the Thirteenth Legion and grant the fallen their much deserved peace in Elysium!”
The Triarii roared in unison, three times, then dropped to a knee, burying their swords into the ground as they bowed their heads.
“May I join you?”
The men leapt to their feet, all swords pointed toward the voice emerging from the darkness.
“Halt, who goes there?”
“A friend, I assure you.”
A little old man was quickly surrounded as he approached Flavus.
“And who are you, old man?” asked Flavus, the man appearing vaguely familiar.
“I am Ananias, the keeper of the skull you now possess.”
Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Present Day
“What have you got?”
Leroux entered the operations center, swiftly taking his spot at the hub of activity, his team manning the various terminals surrounding him as his eyes came to rest on the massive displays arcing around the front of the room.
One of his techs, Randy Child, pointed at the center screen. “Homeland reports that Professor Acton’s and Palmer’s passports were used yesterday for a charter flight to England.”
Leroux’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Do we have footage showing it was actually them?”
Child nodded, hitting a few keys, footage immediately playing that showed the two missing professors exiting the private terminal, unaccompanied.
What the hell is going on here? Are we on a wild goose chase?
An ember of anger formed at the thought of what he was missing back at the hotel thanks to these two people, who looked for all intents and purposes to be heading on a rather well-heeled vacation, something he could never dream of affording.
“They arrived in England seven hours later at a private terminal at Easton Airport, and were met by these people.”
Leroux’s eyes narrowed, the anger subsiding slightly.
These guys don’t look like valets.
“Any IDs
yet?”
Child nodded. “Yup.” The image zoomed in on the man who seemed to be the center of attention. “This is Rodney Underwood.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Why do I know that name?”
“He was an employee at the British Museum, a security guard at the time of the incident in London with Delta. All the files on that op are classified way beyond my clearance, so there’s not much more I can tell you, but since Professor Palmer used to be head of archeology there, I think there’s a good chance she knows him, and since his employment terminated right after those events, I’m guessing he was involved somehow.”
Leroux nodded, the file now recalled, and it was indeed way above Child’s security clearance. “Logical assumption.” Leroux frowned. “So, we’ve got two wealthy professors, boarding a private jet alone, landing in England, and being met by someone one of them used to work with.” He shook his head. “Could this just be an innocent trip? They didn’t tell people their plans?”
Sonya Tong, another analyst who happened to carry a torch for her boss, spoke up. “That wouldn’t explain the shooting at the mall, nor this.” She tapped some keys and another image appeared of Rodney Underwood. She zoomed in on his left side, a shoulder holster clearly visible. “That’s something you don’t see often in the UK.”
Leroux agreed. “True.”
“And also, Professor Palmer didn’t pay for the flight.”
Leroux’s eyebrows rose slightly as he turned to Tong. “She has a private jet, doesn’t she?”
Sonya nodded as she tapped the keyboard, a flurry of scanned receipts and bookings flashing on one of the displays. “She’s part of a sharing network. That’s basically how they’ve been travelling the past couple of years, exclusively. If this were some planned getaway, wouldn’t they have flown on one of the jets available to her? And even if it wasn’t, from her records, she seems to be able to get one at a moment’s notice.”
Leroux pursed his lips, processing the intel. Two rich professors with a penchant for getting into trouble, definitely kidnapped—or perhaps rescued—now apparently voluntarily boarding a private jet paid for by someone else, then landing in London and meeting a former security guard, possibly tied up with the Triarii affair from several years ago.
The Thirteenth Legion (A James Acton Thriller, #15) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 13
