The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

  Cotten Stone had discovered her legacy by coming face-to-face with the Son of the Dawn. His hatred of her grew stronger with every confrontation. She had foiled his plan to bring about an unholy Second Coming, and when she understood that God had given Man free will, the ability to create his own reality, she had thwarted Lucifer’s attempt to have Man commit the ultimate sin against God—suicide. Deciphering a message inscribed by the hand of God on an ancient crystal tablet, she led those who would choose to live in goodness to a new world of peace and joy.

  Unselfishly, Cotten Stone then returned to the old world to continue to fight against her eternal enemy—a world where good and evil were forever at war.

  With each new battle that she fought, the End of Days grew closer.

  Now two armies were forming: the Ruby, led by the Great Deceiver; and the Indigo, led by the daughter of an angel. Soon, Cotten Stone would again be tested as another battle loomed against the Forces of Evil.

  threat level

  Rizben Mace stood in the center of the pentagram carved in the stone floor, its five points striking out like the blades of an ancient weapon. Six black-robed children knelt before him, their faces hidden beneath hoods.

  Clothed in a ruby-red robe, Mace held a golden cup in one hand and a jewel-encrusted dagger in the other. He said, “I call upon Samael, the Guardian of the Gate.”

  In unison, the children intoned, “Samael.”

  Responding to the incantation, a finger of high vapor clouds drifted across the moon that shone down like a pale spotlight.

  Candles flickered in the night air, their flames protected by high walls as they cast an orange glow upon the ancient rite. Dark figures, cloaked in black and torches in hand, ringed the courtyard.

  “I call upon Azazel, the Guardian of the Flame,” Mace said, “the Spark in the Eye of the Great Darkness.”

  Again, the small voices spoke, “Azazel.”

  At the word, the torches brightened.

  “I call upon the Light of the Air, the Son of the Dawn.”

  “Son of the Dawn,” the children repeated.

  A hot breath of wind swooped down and furled the robes about the forms of the shadowy figures.

  Mace held the dagger and the golden cup in outstretched hands. The flames reflected off the polished metal making it appear as if fire burned from within. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped. The wine warmed him. He had waited with anticipation for the ceremony—the initiation—the official presentation of these young warriors to Lucifer, the Son of the Dawn. They were the offspring of the Fallen Angels, the latest Nephilim soldiers in the ranks of the Ruby Army amassing in preparation for the Final Conflict. A wave of pride rippled through his veins as he held up the cup for all to see.

  “In the name of your mighty sword and the flowing lifeblood that gives you the power to conquer, enter into the minds, hearts, and souls of these young warriors, and fill them with your terrible and crushing strength.”

  Mace raised his arms high and the children stood, forming a single line. Each in turn kissed the blade of the dagger and took a sip from the chalice. When all had done so, they returned to their places and pulled back their hoods revealing their young faces.

  Mace opened his arms in a sweeping gesture. “Oh, great Son of the Dawn, behold, the newest soldiers of your vanquishing Ruby Army.”

  _____

  Mace walked out of the building and down the three levels of narrow steps onto the sidewalk. It was always such a jarring transition, he thought, going from the medieval courtyard hidden deep in the heart of the building out into the harsh glare of the Washington, D.C., streetlights, and from his ceremonial robe back into a suit.

  He reached in his pocket and took his cell phone off vibrate. The text message earlier during the ceremony had forced him to rush through the ancient ritual. He wouldn’t want to have to explain to anyone what kept him.

  Standing on the sidewalk, he glanced to his right at the sphinx-like granite lion guarding the entrance. It had a woman’s head with a cobra entwining her neck. Its matching sister stood guard to his left. His limousine waited at curbside, an FBI agent holding the door open. A black Suburban with a forest of rooftop antennae sat poised like a timber wolf in front of the limo. Two police cruisers, one at the front of the small caravan, the other at the rear, were at the ready, their blue and red strobes casting a hypnotic glow on the tall bronze temple entrance behind him.

  Mace slipped into the back of the limo, and the heavy, armored door shut with a bank-vault thud. Immediately, the caravan pulled away—sirens screaming, engines racing. The acceleration pushed him into the deep leather seat as he glanced at his watch. A few minutes past 11:00 PM.

  “What do we have?” Mace asked his advisor, who sat opposite him.

  “About an hour ago, we received word of a significant increase in cyber intrusions on a global scale. The Internet is down in parts of Asia and Africa, and it’s spreading across Europe. Three-quarters of our worldwide monitoring stations are experiencing simultaneous attacks, and over four hundred thousand servers have been infected and shut down.”

  “Is it just the Internet?”

  “So far.”

  “What are the source addresses?” Mace asked.

  “Mostly from China—a few in Malaysia.”

  “Random targets or a focused assault?”

  “It looks random. But it’s huge.”

  “Has anyone notified POTUS?” Mace asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Make the call.” Mace rubbed his face. He could still smell the smoke from the torches and taste the faint sweetness of the wine on his lips. “I’m going to recommend raising the threat level to orange for specific infrastructures. No reason to get the general public in an uproar.”

  “I agree, sir.” The advisor picked up one of several phones from the communications console and pushed a speed-dial number labeled POTUS. In a moment he said, “The Secretary of Homeland Security is calling for the President.”

  the tomb

  Cotten Stone stared at the massive columns inside Assumption Cathedral and marveled at the sacred murals ringing each one. The church was one of the oldest structures within the walls of the Kremlin.

  “Nothing is by chance in a Russian cathedral, Ms. Stone,” said the president of the Russian Federation in stiff English. “The columns support the ceiling, and the saints support the church. That is why the saints are painted on the columns.” He motioned toward the lofty recesses overhead.

  “Breathtaking, Mr. President,” Cotten said, shifting her gaze upward to the splendor of the centuries-old artwork.

  Accompanying Cotten and the president were a small camera and sound crew from Satellite News Network, and a handful of Presidential Security Service agents. Bathed in the glare of the camera floodlight, the two strolled through the building—each footfall and word echoing until dying away among the hallowed shadows. It was after hours, and Assumption Cathedral was empty of tourists.

  They paused in front of the iconostasis, a collection of sixty-nine painted icons that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  “The history of the Bible from the Old Testament to the Last Judgment is illustrated here.” The president extended his right arm in a sweeping motion. “So, now I believe that we have seen all there is.”

  “Well, Mr. President, I can’t thank you enough for sharing the amazing splendor of these magnificent churches with our SNN viewers.”

  “This is the heritage of Mother Russia,” he said. “We are proud to share it.”

  “And you should be.” Cotten reached to shake his hand just as a deafening boom rocked the inside of Assumption Cathedral—the blast so intense it knocked her to the floor. Instantly, the chandeliers went out, throwing the interior of the cavernous church into darkness. A spatter of emergency lights flickered around the perimeter of the church.

/>   Cotten raised her head, dazed. She saw the SNN cameraman on the floor—his camera-mounted floodlight shattered. Small bursts of light sparked from a number of locations in the church—muzzle flashes. The weapons must have been silenced, for she only heard the sickening thuds as their bullets found the soft flesh of those around her. Her cameraman cried out, but the darkness kept Cotten from knowing how badly he was wounded. “Are you hit?” she called. But there was no reply.

  The PSS agents shouted orders, drew their guns, and returned fire.

  Another concussion grenade a few yards away made the cathedral shudder—so violent, Cotten expected the ceiling to collapse and the sacred columns to crumble.

  The president’s strong hand gripped her arm, pulling her to her feet. “This way! Keep low!”

  “What the hell’s going on? Who’s shooting at us?”

  “Could be Chechen rebels. Assassins.”

  Bullets impacted the marble, spewing up shards of stone that bit her legs as he shoved her behind one of the enormous columns. Beside him were two PSS agents, guns blazing.

  She looked over her shoulder in time to see her soundman rise off the floor to follow her, only to be struck down by a barrage of bullets. Her cameraman lay motionless in a crumpled heap. Nearby were the bodies of three Russian security officers.

  One of the two PSS agents turned to his commander-in-chief and spoke quickly—his Russian sounding like a recording played at double speed. The second agent fired a volley of shots toward their attackers.

  “Keep your head down!” The four broke into a run, sprinting across the open space to the next column.

  They crouched behind the thick pillar as a hail of bullets flaked away the five-hundred-year-old masterpiece above their heads.

  Another concussion grenade exploded—a supernova in the darkness, the shockwave reverberating in Cotten’s bones.

  The lead agent tried his radio. No response.

  The president turned to Cotten. “We’ve lost communication, and they’ve blocked our exits.”

  “How do we get out?” A torrent of bullets slammed into the column, raining down more slivers of ancient artwork.

  “We are going to pray with the tsar,” he said, then instructed the agents.

  Before Cotten could ask for an explanation, they were running toward a far corner of the cathedral.

  Bathed in the strange shadow-world produced by the minimal emergency lighting, Cotten saw a small structure perhaps twenty feet high surrounded by a metal railing. The base of the structure was about ten feet square. With its pointed spires, it reminded her of a miniature pagoda-like cathedral—its white surface decoratively and intricately carved.

  As they rushed toward it, the president shouted over his shoulder, “Ivan the Terrible’s praying seat.”

  The two agents began cover fire while Cotten and the president scrambled over the metal railing.

  “This way,” he said, guiding her to the narrow space behind the Tsar’s Praying Seat and the wall. There, he opened a gate and led her into the miniature cathedral. She saw the single chair where the tsar had once presided during high mass. The president pushed the chair aside, revealing a trapdoor in the floor.

  One of the agents who accompanied them slumped, holding his neck as blood gushed from between his fingers. A second later, bullets hit the other agent, throwing him against the railing—the back of his head was now a mass of blood and tissue. With a thump, his gun bounced onto the floor beside the praying seat.

  The president flipped the trapdoor open. As it slammed against the wooden floor, he sank to his knees—a bullet striking his arm. “Get the pistol,” he ordered Cotten, his words strained.

  With bullets chipping away at the ornate structure and wood splintering around her, she grabbed the dead agent’s gun. When she turned back, the president was already in the hole.

  “Hurry!” he yelled.

  Cotten sat on the edge of the opening and felt with her foot for the first step of the stairs while the air around her buzzed with bullets and debris. Her toe found it, and she dropped down.

  After a dozen or so steps, she came to a platform.

  The president leaned against the wall. He moaned and said, “Find the light switch.”

  Cotten ran her hand along the cold stone locating a small, round switch mounted on the wall. Flicking it caused a bulb below the platform to glow. She saw stairs leading downward.

  The president sagged and reached out to her.

  “Lean on my back,” Cotten said, tucking the agent’s pistol inside the belt of her skirt. When she felt his weight against her, she started cautiously down the tight passageway, bracing herself on each side with her arms as she supported him.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a narrow tunnel led into darkness. This time, she quickly found the next light switch. It turned on a string of bulbs running along the center of the tunnel’s ceiling.

  “Go!” he said.

  She looked back at the president and saw that the arm of his jacket was dark red, soaked in blood. His face contorted in pain, his eyes half closed.

  Bullets, fired from the trapdoor opening, slammed into the platform halfway down the stairs, raining shavings of chewed-up wood.

  Cotten led the president through the tunnel until it finally widened and split into two passages.

  “Which way?” She ducked as bullets struck the wall near her.

  The president’s words were weak, almost whispered. “Stay left.”

  With a trace more room to maneuver, she draped his arm around her shoulder, ran hers around his waist, and started through the tunnel.

  Footsteps echoed from behind.

  Ahead, the tunnel opened into a series of large drainage pipes and more passages.

  “Mr. President. Which one?”

  He raised his head. “Always stay left.”

  The footfalls grew louder. Maybe they didn’t know she had a gun, Cotten thought. She could buy a few seconds, perhaps a minute, if she fired several shots. Yanking the pistol from her belt, she glared at it and prayed that when she pulled the trigger, bullets would come out. The Russian agent could have emptied the gun before going down. “Just do it, Cotten,” she said.

  “Yes,” the president whispered.

  Cotten peered around the corner. Like alien creatures, figures in black combat gear rushed single file down the narrow tunnel. They wore helmets, thick body armor, and each face was covered by a strange apparatus—night vision devices, she assumed. Pointing the pistol at the lead rebel, she pulled the trigger.

  The sound was deafening in the hard-rock walls of the tunnel. The recoil jolted her arm up. Immediately, she readied to fire again. This time she steadied the gun with both hands and braced for the kick.

  Again and again she fired.

  The first rebel fell—whether she had killed him or not, she didn’t know, but she had hit him. A second and then a third rebel, dropped. The crack of more gunfire came from farther back, sending sharp-edged rock fragments and wooden splinters flying.

  “Can you keep going?”

  The president nodded. The assassins would keep coming, she knew, but maybe not as fast. If they didn’t know when she would stop and fire at them again in the tight confines of the passage, they would be more cautious, and that would give her a slight advantage.

  As she and the Russian president rounded a corner, a set of stone steps angled up the wall.

  “Up, up!” he said.

  Laboring, Cotten shoved him from behind as they climbed to a stone platform. Facing them was a large door, black and old.

  Reaching out, the president pushed, but the door didn’t budge.

  “Together,” she said. “On the count of three.”

  He blinked and nodded.

  “One, two, three.” Cotten threw her shoulder into the door. With a loud metal
shriek, it gave.

  They stumbled into what appeared to be a storeroom. A flick of a switch turned on an overhead light. By the looks of it, Cotten figured the room had not been used in a long time—perhaps decades. But someone had made certain the light was maintained. An escape route for just such an occasion?

  “Quick, bar the door,” he said.

  Cotten saw the heavy sliding latch. She shoved it into the locked position.

  “Now what?” she said.

  He gestured to another door on the opposite wall. “There.”

  Cotten grabbed its handle and pushed. When it swung forward, she saw a hallway, this one made of what looked like black marble—floor, ceiling, walls—all dark and shiny. The lighting was indirect, soft, and modern. As she closed the door behind them, she heard pounding on the tunnel entrance door. The rebels were blocked. But for how long?

  “Go!” He pointed to the end of the short hall.

  A few steps later they entered a spacious room. It, too, was coal black and softly lit. The walls bore large lightning bolt designs, and a thick red carpet covered the floor. In the center sat a long glass-enclosed display. Smaller at the bottom and flaring out at the top, the display had thick glass walls supported by a metal framework. Eerily, it seemed to glow.

  It took Cotten only seconds to realize what she gazed upon.

  A sarcophagus.

  There before her, laying in repose and protected behind the glass, was the body of a man. His face waxen, his head resting on a white pillow. He wore a black suit, a white shirt with a collar, and a tie. The right hand was clenched.

  “Is that—?” Cotten asked.

  “Yes,” the president said with great effort. He motioned to follow the path around the display bier. On the opposite side, a wide hallway led to the formal entrance.

  “Are we locked in?” she asked.

  “The doors are designed to open from the inside in case of an emergency.” He leaned against the wall and pushed a large red button mounted beside the doors. With a great rush of air and a loud whoosh, they swung open. Immediately, alarms and klaxons screamed as red strobes flashed overhead.