The Warrior's Seal (The Tox Files): A Tox Files Novella

by Kendig, Ronie

  “Negative. They go.”

  “Sir—”

  “Why are you still talking, Russell?” The colonel charged past him.

  Tox closed his eyes.

  “I’m going to get my gear,” Ram muttered as he left. “I’ll check on Palchinski.”

  Tox nodded, his mind clogged with frustration over the mission and concern about his man down with this toxin.

  “You really hate me, don’t you?” Mrs. Montrose asked, her voice pinched.

  “Not you,” he said, barely containing his frustration. “Politicians. Can’t trust them do to the right thing, what’s necessary when the time comes.” He’d grown up in that environment. Failed those who wanted him to succumb to the infection of politics. “Wheels up in thirty. Be ready.”

  She bristled. “What about you? Can we trust you do to the right thing?”

  He almost grinned. “I’ve been doing that for the last decade while you were giving the royal wave, digging in pockets, and driving daggers in the backs of your opponents.” He shook his head again. “I do what I do, and I do it really well. It might kill me to do it—in more ways than one—but I’ll do it. I’ll bring the president home. Not because of you. Not because of him. But because it’s my duty to serve and defend my country.” Tox tugged on the brim of his hat. “Tarmac in twenty.” He went around her toward the barracks.

  “Wait,” she called after him. “I know Corbin Beauchene.”

  Tox stopped short. Angled toward her. “You what?”

  “I know Beauchene. He made a donation to Kevin’s campaign.”

  This smelled rotten. Like sewage in the heat of summer. “In exchange for what?”

  “At the time, nothing.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “He attended our fundraiser. Look, when you enter the diplomatic dance, nothing comes free. Sure, we guessed he’d call in a favor eventually, but we’re not exactly enemies with the French.”

  One question hung at the front of his mind. One he didn’t want to voice but knew had to be asked. His lungs burned with the effort it took to push the thinly veiled accusation into the gap between them. “Did you know anything about this effort with the mace and the toxin? Or about bin Sultan taking the president?”

  Her eyes nearly shot from her skull. “No! Beauchene made a contribution. My husband called him and thanked him personally. A strange sort of friendship grew out of it.”

  “Friendship.” He huffed a disbelieving breath. “The president of the United States is making friends with—”

  “Your commander-in-chief is fighting to position himself to help America, to restore the pride that’s been lost.”

  By sleeping with the enemy. He shook his head. “On the tarmac in nineteen. If you’re not there, I’m not waiting. Your problem.”

  13

  — Kafr al-Ayn, Syria —

  As the massive C-130 rumbled down the tarmac six hours later, slowing to a stop, Tox shouldered into his rucksack. He lumbered to the back of the cargo plane outfitted for troop transport and adjusted his ear mic. The rear-loading door lowered, and Tox spied a team waiting with three vehicles. He strode toward the SEALs.

  “Sergeant Russell? Cody Davis,” the commander shouted over the props of the Hercules.

  Nearly shoulder-to-shoulder so he could hear, Tox shook his hand. “Appreciate you helping us.”

  They herded his team into waiting vehicles. The commander guided the First Lady and the agent into a fourth, then climbed behind the wheel of the first.

  Tox sat in the front passenger seat. The lack of rotor noise nearly hurt his ears. “What’s the latest?” he asked.

  Davis whipped the Humvee away from the tarmac and into the darkness. “Got a squad tailing bin Sultan since his jet touched down. We had one on Beauchene as well, but we lost him. Bin Sultan is holed up in a village called Kafr al-Ayn, though, an hour outside Damascus. We’re headed there now.”

  “They have eyes on bin Sultan? On the weapon?”

  “On him, yes—coming and going. Negative on the weapon. Intel reports that he won’t let it out of his possession.”

  “And Kevin Montrose?”

  Davis shook his head. “No visual, but with the heightened security measures they’ve thrown up in the last twenty-four hours, it’s highly likely this is where they’ve got him.”

  “There’s a professor and a young woman who’ve also gone missing.”

  “Cathey and Khalon. No sign of them since they were removed from the plane.”

  The SUV jounced up to a hut in an olive grove. The team hid their vehicles amid the gnarled tree trunks and headed into a musty stone house on the property. Tox realized they were down two individuals, the First Lady and Wallace.

  “Where’s—”

  “Safe house,” Davis said.

  Perfect. The First Lady wouldn’t appreciate being shipped off to a secure location, but it was the most tactically sound decision.

  For the next hour, Tox’s team huddled with the SEALs over a crude stone and stick layout of the village where the president and the rogue prince were holed up. Davis reported that a two-story building was purported to be a home. But there’d been too much in-and-out to the multilevel building for one family to live there. Through use of thermals and local intel, they’d counted roughly thirty non-coms.

  They made a plan to infiltrate the thirteen-structure village, donned protective gas masks—no risks were worth their lives—then headed out as darkness consumed the land.

  Leaving most of the SEALs on overwatch, Tox and his team, as well as Keogh and Davis, snaked down the small hill toward the village. Adrenaline was high, stakes higher—as high as the grass riffling in the hot air that seared their courage. Night stalked them, its shadows taunting. A million thoughts crowded Tox’s head. Not just tactical considerations—how many gunmen? How well trained?—but psychological ones—would they end up like Palchinski? Would they go home in body bags? He continued through the field, well aware enemy combatants could be hiding in the waist-high grass.

  Thud.

  “Oof!”

  Tox snapped in the direction of the noise. Maangi picked himself off the ground. Then froze. Cursed. Scrambled backward, reaching for his mask.

  “No.” Tox hurried forward, then saw what Maangi had tripped over—a body. The body of a dead villager. “Keep it on, keep it on!”

  “It’s all crusty,” Cell whined.

  Strange, leaving the dead out in the open. Muslims had strict rules about burial and doing it quick.

  “Get moving,” Ram said.

  Tox’s gaze struck the villager’s feet—shoes! “Hold up.” Something wasn’t right. With his breath pluming back at him on the mask as he crouched closer, Tox saw the body wasn’t wearing sandals but black standard dress shoes. His mind pinged to the Secret Service agent with Mrs. Montrose. Holding his breath, he toed the body onto its back. The face was distinctly not Syrian. More European, likely American. The tunic covering the body . . . He drew it back. Revealed a pair of slacks and belt. A badge. The White House seal glared up at him beneath the moonlight.

  Another curse from behind him. “There’s another one.”

  A half-dozen feet farther lay another body.

  “They’re ours,” Tox said. “Secret Service.”

  “Didn’t hide them very well.” Cell backed away.

  Sobered by the hefty dose of reality, Tox looked at the village. “Weren’t trying to.” A renewed anger infused him. “It’s a warning.”

  “They knew we were coming,” Cell said.

  “They didn’t just know, they baited us.” Tox squinted toward the village where a few small dots of pale light blinked at them. Curtained windows. “If they died here, then . . .”

  At his right, Ram let out a grunt. “Everyone here was exposed.”

  “Sure hope these masks work,” Davis added.

  Tox gritted his teeth. “Let’s get this done and get out of here.”

  “Sarge.” Cell trudged down through the grass. “
Before our next mission, think you can choose a new nickname?”

  Tox eyed him.

  “Because I sure like living, and ‘Toxic’ don’t exactly bode well for those following you.”

  Crack! Tink!

  The distinct sound of a bullet grazing something metal pushed Tox to a knee. “Taking fire!”

  14

  “Augh!”

  “Down, down.” Tox lunged for cover in the knee-high grass. Belly pressed to the ground, he listened, his own staccato breaths echoing around the face mask. “Who got hit?” He scanned the field and high places, searching for the shooter.

  “Just a graze,” Ram bit out.

  “Tape it up!” He didn’t need Ram ending up poisoned. A bullet blazed past Tox’s ear. He hugged his M4 tighter. The dampness of the early hour bled through his clothes. “My one o’clock,” he bit out. “Maybe two.”

  “Copy that,” Maangi said from behind the scope of his sniper rifle.

  Almost evenly settled between Tox’s one and two o’clock positions, a tiny burst of light exploded. “Structure red four.”

  “Target acquired.” Maangi had gone deathly calm in his voice and his practiced moves as the team’s sniper.

  Crack! By the time the sonic boom reached the other shooter’s ears, it’d be too late.

  “Target down,” Maangi said.

  Low-crawling, Tox tested to see if they were in the clear. After a half-dozen feet, he went to a crouch.

  “How did those SEALs not see that?” Cell hustled up beside him, cheek to the stock of his weapon.

  “Quiet.” Tox sighted the first building on the outer perimeter of the village—less than two yards out. He sprinted to it, pressing his shoulder against the plaster. As the others mimicked him, he waited. Monitored the now-empty road and the guards posted at the home. The double pat to his shoulder told him the team was in place.

  With a hand signal, he sent Ram to the next structure, the team snaking along the back of the huts to minimize the risk of discovery. Bound and cover. From one place to another.

  A strange smell wafted on the breeze that felt like the hot breath of Syria herself objecting to their presence. As he took up position behind Ram, Tox used the muzzle of his weapon to nudge aside the curtain in the window. Moonlight darted in, anxious to expose them.

  Flies buzzed angrily. And he saw it—what he’d expected. He jerked back, the image seared into his mind of a family in an eternal embrace. Dead. Were all the villagers dead?

  Why would bin Sultan stay in a toxic village?

  To kill me and my guys.

  Another notch in the belt of this crazed prince.

  He rushed on. Moving farther in. It was too easy, but hesitation killed. At the two-story dwelling, they split into two teams. Tox, Maangi, Keogh turned first, while Ram, Cell, and Davis wrapped around the other side.

  “Red One in position,” Tox subvocalized into his mic.

  “Blue One in position,” Ram announced.

  KA-BAR knife in hand, Tox slid up to the first guard and neutralized him. He dragged the guy to the side and let Maangi tuck the body in the alley. When he turned, Ram had taken care of the other. Stun grenade in hand, Tox pulled the pin. Tossed it through the doorway. Turned from the door, shielding his ears.

  Light and sound exploded through the night.

  He whipped around. Weapon up, he rushed into the building, sweeping left to right. A wall slid into a flight of stairs, and Ram’s voice carried through the mic that they were heading up. Tox and his two would clear the main level.

  He pivoted left, his mind clogged—why wasn’t anyone screaming? Thirty villagers and they weren’t running like goats? He shimmied up to the first door. Looked to Maangi, who gripped the knob. Nodded. Maangi threw open the door.

  Tox slid inside—and stopped short. Dirty faces stared back. Vacant eyes. Propped against a wall, a half-dozen young girls sat in silence, blood crusted around their noses and eyes.

  “They’re . . .”

  “Dead.” Tox backed out and pulled the door closed. He swallowed as he approached the next door. Repeated the breaching technique. The rupture of darkness stirred bodies.

  His heart hiccupped—they were alive! A couple of girls whimpered, arms slowly lifted to shield their eyes from the glare of his SureFire. He scanned them. Out of ten, maybe four were alive.

  “Sarge?” Maangi asked, hesitant.

  The girls’ slow, uncoordinated movements warned that death already crouched in the shadows of this room, too. “Next,” he said, backing out.

  “Nothing but sick or dead girls” came Ram’s report. “They’re not going to make it.”

  Tox and Maangi cleared the last three rooms with the same results. “One more, then we clear out ASAP.” He drove his heel against the final knob.

  A woman in the middle of the room screamed and spun toward them.

  Recognition hit Tox. “Tzivia!”

  She stumbled forward.

  An older man shifted into the light. Tox aimed. “Hands! Show me your hands!”

  The older man complied. “I am not your enemy, young man.”

  Hesitation gripped Tox at the clear English. “Who are you?”

  “Joseph Cathey from Johns Hopkins.”

  “Ram,” Tox said, keying his mic. “Tzivia’s here. So’s her professor.” He glanced at the two. “What about Kevin Montrose?”

  Dr. Cathey shrugged and shook his head. “I’m sorry—we were put with the girls.”

  At the shout, Tox turned. Crowding past the others, Ram reached for his sister. Only then did Tox see her pasty face. Gray circles beneath her eyes.

  “Wait!”

  But Ram had already pulled her into his arms. She clung to him tightly. Ram glanced at Tox, who stepped back.

  Were they all contaminated now? Would any of them survive this night?

  15

  “Son of a blister!”

  Back at the perimeter of the village with the SEALS, Tox glanced over his shoulder.

  Face mask off, Cell craned his neck forward, hand to his upper lip to stop the blood flowing from his nose. Their gazes struck just as understanding did. Cell slammed the mask on the ground.

  In the two hours since their insertion, Tox and the team had hovered just outside the perimeter of the village Kafr al-Ayn until triage could be set up by field medics. Bodies were bagged. Those mostly gone were separated from those with early signs of the toxin.

  Like Cell.

  “Sir.” A medic in a hazmat suit came toward Cell. “I need you to come this way.”

  Fury rippled through Cell’s expression.

  “He’s ticked,” Ram said, the gunshot graze on his arm getting stitched.

  “He’s not the only one,” Tox said. “We did that—went in there—for what? Montrose wasn’t there.”

  “But Tzivia was.” Ram’s thick brows knotted. “My sister—”

  “Has been exposed to the toxin.” Tox looked down and sighed. “I’m sorry. But—”

  “Don’t say it.” Ram scratched his beard. “I know . . . I know her chances, but don’t say it. I need the hope.”

  Understandable. Just like Tox needed the hope that the president was still alive. Still not infected.

  Davis strode toward him, a fierce look gouged into his face. With him were another SEAL and Dr. Cathey. How had the professor not been infected when his intern had been?

  “You’re cleared?” Tox asked.

  Dr. Cathey shrugged. “Apparently. God watched over me, I guess.”

  Tox pointed to the triage tent, which also had a containment area to seal off the infected until the UN could arrange safe transport. “Two of my men are down and they both were religious. Telling me God plays favorites?”

  “Russell,” Davis said, stepping between them. “We need to talk.” He angled toward the professor. “He has a theory.”

  Stowing his anger was a skill Tox had perfected over the last decade. “Go on.”

  “The mace dates back to—w
ell, in all honesty,” Dr. Cathey said, his demeanor shifting as he fell into easy dialogue about the weapon, “nobody is sure when the mace came about, and there is not a lot known about it, but there are a number of royal inscriptions from Assyrian kings. Some spoke of terrifying splendor, devastating villages. Tiglath Pileser III said—”

  Davis tapped Cathey’s shoulder. “Digest version, doc. We’re short on time.”

  “Right.” His gaze darted to Tox’s before he lifted a black leather satchel and opened it. He retrieved a brown paper bag. “The mace is said to be the weapon of the god Ashur. The twentieth inscription of Rezin, King of Damas—”

  “Doc. Time.”

  Dr. Cathey held up a hand. “I’m taking the short route, Commander. Be patient.”

  “People are dying.”

  “And they will continue until the warrior’s seal stops the mace.”

  Tox rolled his eyes. Turned away, sighing heavily.

  “What have you to lose, Sergeant Russell?”

  “Time!” Tox snapped.

  “But you must capture Nizar bin Sultan regardless of whatever you believe is behind the mace’s power.”

  “Dating back to antiquity . . .” came a firm, soft voice.

  When Tox turned, his stomach clenched. He resisted the urge to shove away from Tzivia Khalon.

  “Hey!” Maangi shouted. “You should be in the med tent!”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not infected. I was dehydrated and exhausted, but my blood work is clear.” She met Tox’s gaze, sorrow caught in her irises.

  The dark circles were gone. Her olive complexion seemed normal now. “I saw you.” His mind flipped. “You were as sick as the others.”

  “No, they thought so—as did I. But severe dehydration made me appear exposed.” She bobbed her head to Dr. Cathey. “He has a theory on stopping it.”

  Something slithered through Tox’s gut. He didn’t like this. “I’m listening.”

  “Dating back to antiquity,” Tzivia continued, “they believed the terror of the mace to be no more than royal propaganda. Psychological warfare. It is speculated that a foreign toxin introduced to the water supply was actually behind the devastation.”