“Lived with people?” Davidson asked with wide eyes. “For how long?”
Knight shrugged. “Days, maybe weeks. We’re not sure yet.”
“There goes your fifteen-minute continued-utterance theory,” King said.
With a nodding head, Davidson said, “I should say so.” He turned to King. “But this was a clay golem in the form of a man. What applies to the crude stone giants may not apply to something this … sophisticated.”
Davidson untwisted the cover from the sample and smelled the clay. His face was pale, but excited.
“What is it?” King asked.
Davidson held the sample aloft like it was some kind of ancient treasure. “We shouldn’t call this man Richard.” He looked King in the eyes. “We should call him Adam.”
SIXTY-ONE
Location Unknown
FIONA WOKE IN a new cell, similar in size and shape to the last, but the stone was now brown and flat. A small slit on one side was the only feature. It allowed air and a small amount of light into the space. But where she was didn’t matter. She still needed to free herself from her bonds and set to work upon waking up.
Fiona spit a bloody clump of rope fibers onto the floor next to her. She had been working on the rope for what felt like several hours, chewing feverishly and taking breaks. Her gums had become raw and bloody, but the injury was minor and fairly painless in comparison to the pain she felt in her body. Bound tight and struggling for so long, her muscles had begun to cramp. Waves of dizziness struck. Her headache persisted and accompanied a dire thirst. She tried to ignore her discomfort and focused on her bindings, which were now held together by only a few strands of twine.
Fiona’s arms shook as she pulled them apart. The fibers grew taut and tore slowly as one strand after another snapped. When the chewed rope reached its breaking point, it broke in two. Her arms flew out to her sides and then fell limp.
She was exhausted from her efforts, but her hands were free. Fighting against the tiredness gripping her body, she reached down to her feet and began untying the rope binding her ankles. What normally would have been a quick job took ten minutes as the severe tingle of full blood flow returning to her fingers made every movement agonizing.
With her feet free, Fiona stood slowly, using the wall for support. As she did, a wave of nausea struck and threatened to return her to the floor. She placed her face against the cold stone wall. She took a moment to breathe and let her body figure itself out. Once she felt a measure of balance return, she slowly bent down and touched her fingers to her toes. The stretch felt good. She stood tall again and breathed deeply. She felt better, but still quite dizzy and the headache and thirst had yet to diminish.
Moving as quietly as she could, she walked to the cell’s only light source, the long slit in the stone wall. She peered through the slit, expecting to see a guard. But there was no one there.
Why would they guard a cell with no doors? Fiona thought.
The space directly outside the cell was just another stone wall. She moved to the left, angling her view so she could see down the hallway. It opened up ten feet beyond. The light was brightest there.
And there were shadows.
Moving.
And a voice. She listened, but couldn’t understand the quiet words being spoken like a chant. A moment later she heard something she did understand.
“Damnit!” The shout was masculine, deep, and held a supernatural menace—as though the word hadn’t just been spoken by a single man, but by two, out of sync by a fraction of a second.
The chanting started up again. The language was again unknown to her, but bits and pieces struck a chord. Portions of words sounded familiar. Tones. Inflections. Not enough to figure out what was being said, but some part of what the man said was familiar to her. She realized she was hearing fragments of Siletz, a dead language to all but her.
The chant ended in frustration once again with the pound of a fist. She jumped at the sharp noise, but remained quiet. She was intent on hearing anything and everything going on outside her cell.
What she heard next, shook her to the core. “Please, sir,” a man said in a weak, heavily accented voice. “No more. I know nothing. I do not know what you are asking.”
“I’m not asking anything,” the deep voice said. This was followed by an angry shout and the smack of flesh on flesh.
Without seeing what was happening, Fiona could imagine what was going on. There was a man, bound, maybe sitting in a chair. He thought he was being interrogated, but the other man, the one with the deep voice, wasn’t asking questions. Then what was he doing?
She heard one of them spit. She wasn’t sure which one until the captive said, “If I knew what you wanted I would tell you nothing! American pig!” And then he spat again.
There were two shouts. One of anger. One of fear. The smack of wood striking stone came next. The chair had hit the floor. Hard breathing. Wet clicks. A shifting scuff of feet on the floor.
Her eyes widened as her imagination created the most likely image. The captive had been knocked over and was being strangled. The killer stood, cleared his throat, and then spoke the strange language again, this time with practiced ease. “Versatu elid vas re’eish clom, emet.”
She repeated the words in her head, not knowing the meaning, but determined to remember them if they turned out to be important. King had always stressed the importance of collecting intelligence before taking action. And she had nothing better to do in her featureless cell.
A new shadow shifted in the room, this one mobile. Each step the figure took was marked by a loud grinding of stone.
“Get me some water,” the deep voice said.
The rough footsteps faded into the distance, then returned a moment later. She heard the man sip some water. Her mouth salivated. She wondered if she should ask for some, but decided against it. If the man knew she was awake and free of her bonds she would never learn anything.
“Tisioh fesh met,” the man said.
The second shadow stopped shifting.
As she realized she had just heard the creation and undoing of one of the stone monsters she had seen at Fort Bragg and her previous prison, fear consumed her, chasing the words from her memory. The fear was then replaced by chills. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she felt more ill.
Oh no, she thought as the reality of her situation finally sank in.
She lifted up her shirt, looking for her insulin pump. It was gone. Nausea surged with her emotions, threatening to send her to the floor. She breathed deeply, willing it to pass, and cleared her mind.
It must have fallen off when they took me, she thought.
And now she understood why she felt so awful. The dizziness. The headache. The dehydration.
Hyperglycemia.
That normally meant she’d have a week or two before things got bad, before she slipped into a coma, or worse, died. But those numbers were for people with a regular diet and food. Drinking a lot of water would help keep her system clean, but she had none. Some people lived five to six days without water, but most died in three. Already dehydrated and feeling the first effects of hyperglycemia, she doubted she’d last another day.
She tried once again to focus on the man’s words. To her frustration, she no longer remembered precisely what he’d said. Nausea coursed through her again. She fought against the urge to vomit. The effort caused her body to shake.
She moved back to her post at the slit in the wall, praying the man would say something important, hoping her father would arrive in time to put her intelligence gathering to good use. As a new voice rolled down the tunnel, rescue seemed less likely.
“We have only one more test subject,” the new, gargled voice said. “Should we send for more?”
“Not yet,” the deep voice replied. “We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention. Not until we’re ready.” There was a shifting of feet and then, “If the next one doesn’t survive we’ll use the girl.”
Fiona prayed they weren’t talking about her, but knew in her core she would soon be sitting in the dead man’s chair. What the men said next, solidified her fear.
“How will we know if she’s truly changed?”
The man fell silent for a moment and then let out a quick laugh. “This … this is perfection. What better way to punctuate King’s failure than to have his little girl put a knife through his heart. That’s our final test. She’s going to kill King.”
SIXTY-TWO
Siberia, Russia
THE FUR-COVERED CORNER seat held Rook’s weight without any trouble. And the fire burning in the nearby fireplace warmed the outside of his body as much as the vodka warmed him from within. But the creature comforts and alcohol did little to stifle the pain in his gut.
Galya was a ruthless surgeon. She had dug and cut into him without mercy, plucking the shotgun pellets from his flesh one at a time. After a grueling hour without anesthetic, she had finished and sewed him up. In the day since, he had tried to move as little as possible, lying in bed or sitting still while sipping vodka and watching Galya hustle around the cabin.
Despite her age, which she would not disclose, she was fit and energetic. She moved with efficiency and assuredness, tidying up the cabin and putting on a stew of potatoes, carrots, and meat from the reindeer she had shot and butchered.
She entered the cabin with fresh firewood, blowing on her hands to warm them. “Going to be another cold night.”
Feeling a little tipsy from all the vodka, Rook flashed her a lopsided grin and, still speaking Russian, said, “I bet I can find a way to keep you warm.”
She paused and looked at him. Her face serious and crossed with wrinkles from years of hard work. A smile spread on her face, revealing a mouth with several teeth missing. She laughed hard and sat down by the fire. “I’m more woman than you could handle, boy.”
Rook chuckled. “A real Russian bear, eh?”
Galya pulled a stool, which was nothing more than a chunk of a tree, over to the fireplace and sat down. She stretched her hands out, warming them. She grew solemn. “There was a time, when this cabin wasn’t occupied by myself alone, that that might have been true. But this bear is beyond her wild years. Now I’m just trying to live.” She looked at Rook, forcing a grin. “Not that you can really call this living. It’s closer to surviving.”
“You don’t like it here?”
“This is my home. It has been for twenty years.” She returned her gaze to the fire. “But it has been tainted since Kolya’s death two years ago. In the time since, I have kept up my duties and taken on his, simply waiting for death to rejoin us. Unfortunately for me, my mother and grandmother each lived to nearly one hundred.”
“That gives you what, another fifty years left to live?” Rook said.
She gave him a wry smile. “Still trying to get me in bed?”
Rook laughed and then winced. Even a subtle flexing of his stomach sent waves of pain through his body.
Seeing his pain, Galya stood. “We best get you back into bed.” She offered her hand to Rook and helped him stand.
Towering more than a foot over the old woman, Rook looked down at her with a wide grin. “I knew you couldn’t resist getting me in your bed.”
She swatted his chest. “Do you ever stop?”
“Not with people I like,” Rook said, though he knew the truth was far more complicated. The good company, humor, and alcohol were dulling more than just a physical pain. The memories of his teammates’ deaths were still fresh in his mind and he hoped to forget them, if only for a night.
With one arm around Rook’s back she helped him toward the bedroom. But before they reached the door, she paused. Rook noticed her attention turn swiftly toward the front windows. “Someone’s here,” she said.
The rumble of an engine grew louder and slowed with a squeak of brakes.
Adrenaline spiked inside Rook. They were here for him. “I’ll go out the back window.”
“You think it’s the men who shot you?” she asked.
“Do you get any visitors out here? Ever?”
Her frown answered the question. No.
Leaving Rook by the bedroom door, she moved to the front window and peeked out. Two men in camouflage uniforms stepped out of a black SUV. At first glance they appeared to be the very hunters Rook had spoken of, but the weapons they held—AK-74M assault rifles—identified them as Russian military. She swung around toward Rook. “You were shot by the military?”
Rook wasn’t sure if Galya would turn him in, but there was no sense in lying to her. “Yes.”
“Will they kill you now?”
Rook reached behind his back and drew his handgun. “They’ll try.”
Galya froze as indecision gripped her. The two men outside approached the cabin, weapons raised. “Don’t leave the cabin,” she told him, then reached for her rifle.
“Wait, what are you—”
“Stanislav, I’m tired of waiting.” She approached the door and stopped. Rook winced as he tried to cross the room to her. But the pain was too great. “I have a brother, Maksim Dashkov. He’s on the northern coast, in Severodvinsk. He can get you out of the country.”
Rook’s concern over Galya’s intentions diminished as it appeared she intended for him to flee out the back, as he had suggested. “You’re sure he’ll help?”
“Tell him it was my dying wish.”
As the statement sunk in, Galya opened the door, stepped outside with a friendly greeting, then raised her rifle and fired. Rook saw a puff of pink outside the window as the single shot found its mark in one of the soldier’s heads. But Galya never got off another shot. The second soldier unleashed a barrage. Many of his rounds missed and tore into the cabin, forcing Rook to duck. But five found Galya’s body. As she fell, her rifle dropped inside the cabin.
The remaining soldier, unaware of Rook’s presence, approached Galya’s body. He kept his weapon aimed at her, pushing her body with his foot. She was clearly dead, but the soldier, angered by the death of his comrade, raised his rifle and took aim at Galya’s head.
“Hey, buddy,” Rook said.
The soldier whipped toward Rook, but didn’t get a chance to fire. Rook pulled the trigger of Galya’s rifle and shot the man in the chest. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees. He looked at Rook with a mixture of surprise and loathing before tipping forward and crashing to the pine needle–laden ground.
Rook checked Galya for signs of life despite knowing he’d find none. He placed her rifle back in her hand, closed her eyes, and kissed her cheek. “You were a bear. Thanks.”
He hated doing what followed, but Galya was a survivor. She would understand. He took what supplies he could from the cabin, including a map, a little money, food, matches and candles, and then headed out on foot. The only way his presence could remain undetected was to leave the scene of death as it was, which meant he couldn’t bury Galya’s body. The authorities had to be convinced this was a tragic misunderstanding between two soldiers and an old hermit with a rifle. Otherwise they would be fresh on his trail.
It also meant he couldn’t take the SUV. Feeling a little bit like David Banner at the end of every Incredible Hulk episode, Rook struck out walking. He headed north, toward colder weather and the possibility of freedom. He knew he could call for help and get an expedited route out of the country, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to return to that life. Like Galya, he needed to be alone, to search his soul, and if necessary, find a meaningful way to join the dead he’d sent to Valhalla ahead of him.
SIXTY-THREE
Washington, D.C.
BOUCHER SAT BEHIND a large antique desk, leaning back in a brown leather chair that had conformed to its owner’s thick body over time. As a result, the chair was uncomfortable. It didn’t belong to him.
Nor did the office.
And no one knew he was there. Not the secretary sitting at the desk outside the closed doors. Not a single subordinate at the CIA. Not a single
security guard. He was a ghost. But that was easy to do when your security clearance granted you access to most of Washington, including security feeds, keys, and schedules.
He’d waited for fifteen minutes now, but expected company soon. If Marrs stuck to his regular morning schedule, he’d swing through these doors, no doubt feeling light on his feet, in about thirty seconds.
Boucher passed the time by scanning the office and gleaning what he could about the man. There was a painting of Arches National Park. It was decent, but plain. There were photos of family on the desk, all smiling. All posed. A map of Utah hung opposite the painting. Diplomas. Awards. Certificates. An American flag stood behind the chair. Several framed photos with world leaders and former presidents hung between the windows.
Everything in the room screamed, I care about Utah and the United States.
But it was all for show. No one who really cared about public service and the good of the people worked so hard to show it. Marrs put on a convincing show and ran his mouth like a good politician, but when it came to actions, to really doing what had to be done for the good of the people, the man was impotent.
Boucher almost got up and left. Helping Marrs in any way, even if it was the right thing to do, made him queasy. But before he could think on it, the door opened. Marrs’s silhouette filled the door.
“Maggie, why in the hell are the shades drawn?” he said.
Boucher heard an “I dunno” from the outer office. Marrs shook his head, entered, and closed the door behind him.
With a quick tug, Boucher sent the shade shooting up. It struck the top of the window frame and spun with a force that nearly launched it free. Marrs shrieked and jumped back, dropping his briefcase.
Marrs was squinting in the fresh light. “Who’s there?”
Boucher didn’t answer. He enjoyed the terrified expression on Marrs’s face. But his eyes must have adjusted to the light because he suddenly recognized his visitor. “Boucher?” Marrs circled the desk. “Don’t you have grunts to bug offices?”
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