Tox turned, searching the room—there! In the corner. The president sat against a wall, hands and legs bound, mouth gagged. Hobbling over to him, Tox grabbed his KA-BAR. Sliced through the bindings.
“We have to hurry. Bomber’s coming.” He hauled Montrose to his feet, dragging him out. “Go! Go! Go!” He pitched the president through the blown door.
His leg seized. Tox grabbed it, squeezing hard. Blood spurted between his fingers. The pain buckled his knees. He went down.
“Soldier!”
“Go,” Tox growled as he pushed to his feet. “I’m right behind you.”
Montrose spun around and ran.
Tox took a step and tripped over something. A heavy thunk resounded through the tunnel. Something rolled unevenly into the open. Spikes on a round orb clunked in a circle.
The mace.
Head spinning, air hard to come by, Tox threw himself forward, snatching the weapon from the ground. Where was the jeweled box? He fell against the wall, his shoulder taking the brunt of his weight. It wasn’t anywhere in sight. He kept moving. Stumbling. Dizziness spun his vision in circles.
Warmth slipped over his lip. His ears rang. The toxin!
He trudged and stumbled, his shoulder jarring against the wall. He growled against the pain but refused to stop. At the other end of the tunnel, his lamp caught Montrose’s shoes disappearing aboveground.
Good. He’d make it.
The relief intoxicated him. Tox’s limbs felt like anchors. Air like water. But he ran. Or tried.
His feet cooperated as well as wet noodles. Tangling. Tripping him. Holding his shoulder with one hand and the mace with the other, he shuffled toward the ladder. Hooked an arm over the third rung. Pulled up. His mind knotted, trying to figure out how to haul himself up to the next rung.
His boot slipped.
Tox caught himself, breathing hard. Arms trembling. Boot slickened by the blood sliding down his leg. Should’ve tied off the wound.
Too late now.
He gave another push.
His foot shot through the rung. He fell backward. The only thought screaming through his mind: Don’t lose the mace!
His watched beeped. Time’s up.
Inverted, foot caught in the ladder, Tox crossed his arms, the mace pressed against his chest, and rolled away from the blast—a foolish notion.
The concussion felt like two massive punches. One against his ears, the other to his chest, dislodging all air.
A fireball torpedoed toward him.
17
Shock rippled through Tzivia as the bombs struck the village. Her heart leapt into her throat when the two-story structure Ram’s sergeant had vanished into collapsed in humiliated defeat. Catastrophic destruction. Nothing could be alive in there.
Her brother tore his arm from around her and sprinted down the hillside. Shouts from the SEALs for him to stop went unheeded.
Stunned, Tzivia could not gather her wits. Or her courage. A half-dozen men took off after Ram, and Tox’s team raced toward the burning village. The SEAL commander rent the air with curses, calling in to command that the Green Berets had gone into the village.
Tzivia resisted following them. She’d been rescued from that place and there was a large piece of her glad to see it burning.
Dr. Cathey joined her. “Ram needs the wax and seal.”
It was as good a reason as any to quit her fears. Tzivia caught his wrist. “C’mon!” She jogged down the hillside with the professor.
Dense smoke wafted across the road, snaking from one rubble pile to another. Ram and his teammates tossed large pieces of cement blocks and plaster aside like they were foam.
“Here,” President Montrose said, pointing to a spot near the middle of the structure. “The tunnel hatch was almost dead center.”
“Get him out of here,” Ram ordered the SEALs. “Last thing we need is the president dying.”
“He saved my life!” Kevin Montrose barked. “I’m not leaving until we dig him out alive.”
The team focused where he’d indicated. They shifted aside rubble and cots.
Tzivia frowned, thinking of the fast-acting toxin. “Why aren’t any of us sick, or getting sick?”
“The fires?” someone suggested.
“No, they are not hot enough to burn the pathogens from the air,” Dr. Cathey said. “Something . . . something happened. Did you find the mace? Seal it with the wax?”
“Negative,” Ram said. “Shut up and dig!”
The crackling of burning buildings, the roar of fire and smoke, and the grunts of the team working filled the void of silence.
“Get out! Get out!” Lt. Commander Davis ran toward them, waving his arms. “Second bomber is inbound! Get out!”
Scrambling off the rubble, Tzivia somehow heard—above the shouts and burning buildings—the droning of the bomber. But maybe that was her imagination. It would be too high to hear, wouldn’t it?
A screaming whistle pierced her ears.
She cleared the rubble, pushing Dr. Cathey ahead as she caught traction.
The second bomb hit. A dead weight crashed into her. Pitched her forward. Her feet lifted. She twisted, flipped. Searing air gusted, tossing her hair into her face as the ground rushed up at her.
She landed hard, as if someone took a sledgehammer to her back. The world blinked out. Dirt and rock rained down as her vision cleared once more.
Her brother was there, lifting her. Dragging her to safety. “You okay?” he shouted, his voice warbling because of her plugged ears.
Shaking off the disorientation, she nodded.
Ram immediately spun toward the SEAL commander. “You call them off!” he shouted. “Call them off right now before someone else dies!”
“The president!” Maangi shouted. “He’s dead!”
****
Fire bled through every cell and pore of Tox’s body. The pain pulled at him, drowning him in an agony he could never have imagined. Darkness crept in, deeper and heavier than the blackest of nights. Tempting him to let go. Taunting him over the mockery of his life, his worthless life.
And yet, somehow through the thickness of pain and despair, a figure appeared. Brightened against an ebony sea above him. Took shape. Grew larger, stronger.
Dead. I’m dead!
A white tunic emblazoned with a red cross swam across Tox’s vision as the man reached for him. Angel of mercy or angel of death?
Death.
There was no mercy for men like him, who failed so miserably at life.
The fingers, aged yet strong, coiled around his tactical vest as if it were nothing more than a T-shirt. It pulled, severing the thin cord of Tox’s life.
“No! I don’t want to die!”
Somehow, even in the darkness and with the man a silhouette of light, Tox saw him smile.
Light shattered the dark void.
Voices warbled in the distance. Shadows above danced and twisted. One at first. Then two . . . and another. Until there were so many they crowded out the light altogether.
A shadow squawked. The noise felt like a spike driven through his ears.
Tox was lifted from the clutches of death.
“Tox! Tox, you with us?”
He grunted and clenched his eyes.
“Get him up, get him up! Easy!”
“He has the mace!”
The words made Tox tighten his grip on the handle of the weapon. He wasn’t letting go . . .
“Where’s the box?”
“It’s too late for that—we’ve been exposed.”
“It’s covered in his blood.”
“That’s it!” a strange voice said. “His blood—the seal of the warrior. That’s why the toxin is gone.”
Epilogue
— Fort Leavenworth —
There were things a man saw when his life flashed before him, as death swooped down to steal his last breath. Things that made him reevaluate his life, his decisions. Because of those preternatural moments, Tox now took things
a little more seriously.
Like freedom.
Traumatic brain injury. That was what they’d diagnosed him with when he came to after the bombing. But there wasn’t anything wrong with him. He just wasn’t willing to talk about what he’d seen in that tunnel. Not unless he wanted to end up with an insanity discharge. They’d chalked it up to physical trauma, but he’d seen the look in their eyes. The wariness. He took it as a warning.
But a psych eval would’ve been the least of his troubles. Maybe he should’ve talked. Because he’d spent the first month in the hospital under guard, deemed a threat because he’d disobeyed a direct order. His men had followed him into the flames—literally.
So had the president. And he’d been killed by the bomb sent in to neutralize the area. JSOC and the US needed a scapegoat, someone to blame for the president’s death. A goat named Tox Russell.
Now serving life in prison at Fort Leavenworth, thanks to the charges they’d thrown at him: Disobeying lawful orders, Dereliction of Duty under Article 134, and Involuntary Manslaughter under article 199 for his negligent actions leading to the death of the president. The last charge could’ve gotten him the death penalty.
Tox hated himself. Hated that men of honor had died because of him.
Secure in a cement coffin with a steel door and no bars, he did his own physical therapy to regain full use of his shoulder and leg.
“Shirt on, then hands on the wall, Russell.”
Tox looked over his shoulder. The slot in his prison door revealed his favorite prison guard—an officer the inmates had nicknamed Helo. Tox toweled off, threaded his hands through his shirt and moved to the wall. He placed his palms against the cool cement and waited.
The door clanked open. Four guards entered, chaining Tox up as if he was the worst of criminals. But with a federal rap sheet that now included four lives—one of them the president of the United States—Tox didn’t blame them.
“Walk in the park?” Tox asked Helo.
“Visitor.”
Tox scowled. Since being released from the hospital, his brother hadn’t even visited. Helo escorted Tox to a small conference room. Once he was unchained, another door opened.
In walked a suit. It took a moment for his face to register. The years had been hard on the man who’d been his brother’s campaign administrator and had held the office of Chief of Staff since Galen won the election. Barry Attaway. He stood about five inches shorter than Tox, had a receding hairline, and muddy brown eyes.
Tox frowned. “What are you doing here?” Only one thing made sense—“Something happen to Ga—”
“He’s fine.”
And by default, Tox would assume his sister-in-law Brooke was fine as well. “What can I do for you?”
“Your team—their trials are coming up.”
Grief and guilt chugged through his veins. Pushed Tox’s gaze down. Palchinski had died from the Mace Toxin, as it’d come to be called. Cell recovered in time to be incarcerated with Maangi, Ram, and Keogh—all facing court martials for disobeying a direct order that caused the death of President Montrose.
“Would you do it again, Cole?”
Without hesitation, he lifted his gaze. “Absolutely.” He’d found the president. The toxin had mysteriously disappeared—though he didn’t buy the supernatural theory Dr. Cathey had thrown out about Tox’s blood sealing the mace. “Had to be done.”
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Attaway nodded. “I have a proposition for you, Russell. One that, should you succeed, could be a Get Out of Jail Free card for your team.”
Tox straightened. “Get out of—they’ll be cleared?”
“Their records will be marked ‘honorable,’ but they’ll never again be allowed to serve. Charges will be expunged. Records sealed.”
“I’ll do it.”
Attaway snickered. “You don’t know what it is.”
“My actions ended their careers. I’ll do whatever I can to clear them.”
“What about yourself?”
Tox shrugged. “I’m in a cement coffin. What could be worse?”
Attaway smirked. “Russell, if you do this, you will cease to exist.”
“I’m already dead, Attaway.”
****
Keep reading for a special excerpt of Conspiracy of Silence by Ronie Kendig.
1
— Ten Days Ago —
Jebel al-Lawz, Tabuk Province, Saudi Arabia
Vindication tasted like sweat. Backbreaking, limb-aching sweat. Tzivia Khalon pushed onto her knees and used the back of her gloved hand to wipe away the perspiration plastering her hair to her face and neck. She needed a break. In the logbook, she recorded her progress, sketched what the B23 grid site resembled, then stood and started for the sorting tent.
Noel Garelli, her assistant, looked up from B20. “Giving up?”
Tzivia snorted. “Not in your dreams.” Though they’d all thought about it. Two weeks onsite, and they’d uncovered nothing of significance, nothing directly connected to the Bronze Age or the Israelites. But there was no way she’d walk away so soon. Dig sites could go from mundane to extraordinary in the space of an inch.
Just an inch. I just need an inch. Just 25.4 millimeters to clear her résumé of the Kafr al-Ayn disaster three years ago, when a toxin from an artifact stolen from her mentor, Dr. Joseph Cathey, nearly wiped out a village. The president of the United States had been killed in the aftermath. Despite being cleared of negligence and wrongdoing, Tzivia bore the dent in her reputation from that incident. It had endangered grants. Stalled donations.
Jebel al-Lawz was her chance to expunge that humiliating experience from her life. One amazing find, and she would be sought after. Respected. She wouldn’t let anything or anyone ruin this chance. Not even her nosy brother in the States. Or his brooding, handsome friend, Tox Russell.
Tzivia huffed. Tox had died three years ago. It still stung. Not to mention the way he’d shut her out when they arrested him. Told her to move on. “It’s for your own good.”
She had moved on—she was now Doctor Tzivia Khalon. Had it not been for the weight Dr. Cathey’s name carried, Kafr al-Ayn could’ve destroyed her career and life. But being an authority on Ancient Near Eastern studies, he pulled a few strings and had them cleared of any misconduct. When she compared her resume against his, she might as well be in kindergarten. Her focus had strictly been Ancient Near East, but Dr. Cathey had degrees in Hebrew Bible and semitic epigraphy as well as Ancient Near Eastern Studies. With two doctorates, he now served as an adjunct professor with Oxford’s Oriel College.
She scanned the archaeological dig site. Her site. With the help of Dr. Cathey, they’d won the grant to search for answers about Jebel al-Lawz, the land purported to be where the Israelites had encamped. Gaining the permission of the Saudi Commission for Tourism and National Heritage to work this site wasn’t easy, but the promise of cooperation and sharing all artifacts got her team onsite. Having Dr. Cathey backing the dig gave her clearance to even be here, gave the dig credibility, and provided her with an authority who could review any recovered artifacts.
Years ago, the Saudis had erected a fence and guard hut around this area to keep out looters and vandals. They believed something significant happened here, and she shared that belief, though she wouldn’t fall prey again to Dr. Cathey’s religious ideals—that was his one detraction. Or should she call it “distraction”? He believed the Bible to be more than a piece of literature. He believed Moses had been here. That the blackened mountain in the distance was where the Hebrew patriarch received the Ten Commandments.
Many scholars refuted the site. Some had outright called her desperate for coming here. Supernaturally carved tablets or not, she and her team would attempt to answer whether this site truly was the biblical Mount Sinai.
“Just one inch,” Tzivia whispered as she pivoted.
Earth gave way beneath her feet. Rocks scraped and clawed her legs, yanking her downward. With a scream, she shielded her f
ace. Terror grabbed her by the throat. Dirt and rocks smothered her face.
Then didn’t. She felt the world fall away. Coldness wrapped her tight in the split-second before she landed.
Pain slammed into her back. She landed, staring up at the hole. It seemed impossibly small for her to have fallen through. Dirt dribbled into her eyes. She jerked away, peeling off the ground. Her hand suctioned against mud. Mud? This arid region wasn’t exactly fertile terrain. She squinted around. To the left, a short, two-foot-high stone circle. Worn, broken boards straddled the stones.
Plop! Plunk!
Water rippled. Water! The stones encircled the lip of a well.
Wiping muddy hands on her tactical pants, she climbed to her feet. Before her—she froze. Mud bricks laid out in a consistent pattern. A wall? She bent, her fingers tracing the mortar that had formed through the years between the bricks. No, not years—centuries!
“Tzivia!”
“Here,” she called, waving a hand behind her but unable to take her eyes off the wall. Something protruded from the ground at the base. Gloves back on, she gently brushed aside the silt. “Noel, c’mere!”
“Sending a rope down.”
Tzivia traced the lower edge of the wall with her gloved finger. How far did it go back? Bricks crumbled at her touch. Her heart climbed into her throat as years of history were reduced to rubble and dirt. “No no no.” She drew back her hand, afraid to create any more damage before it could be logged. Afraid she’d undo the miracle just discovered.
The wall stood about six feet tall. What was this place? A dwelling? It didn’t look right for Bronze Age. Her hope dimmed. She shifted and checked right and left. It stretched the entire length of the underground cave.
But there was a well here. So . . . Tzivia stepped back a few paces. Took in the wall. What’s behind you? She went to her knees. Shoulder to the wet ground, she peered into the new hole. Darkness. She yanked the torch from her hip holster and flashed it into the darkness.
Light stabbed the ebony blanket beyond. Dust particles danced on the beam. A room!
Whoosh!
As another section of the wall gave way, Tzivia shoved back and turned away. Coughing, she blinked quickly to clear her eyes.
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