by Rick Jones
Butcher Boy raised a hand toward Aussie. Don’t be stupid and kill this deal!
“Five million dollars per soldier once the mission is complete,” he answered immediately. “That’s my right.”
The Australian appeared stunned. “Five million per?” he whispered. “Seriously, mate?”
These people were so easy to please, he thought. Toss a few of pesos their way and they’ll jump through whatever hoop you tell them to. “I believe five million dollars for your services grants me that right, yes?”
“Unless the threat of danger proves too high,” answered Butcher Boy. “You can’t spend money if you’re dead.”
“But aren’t there certain risks to every mission?”
“We’re battle-seasoned vets. You’re not. The core of command decisions are based on current threat. Should you make the wrong determination, then my unit can get wiped out.”
Hall shook his head. “This little excursion of mine is not against a military faction,” he said. “Your purpose is to see that I return to this ship safely once the matter is concluded.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he answered. “I guarantee that you will not be confronting anyone bearing arms.”
The commandos looked at each other. This was easy money. But still, a red flag went up. Why pay so much for sentinel protection if there was no true opposition?
“Low risk, high yield,” Hall said enticingly. “Do we have an agreement?”
“No combatants?”
“None that you’ll need to worry about.”
It was like stealing candy from a sleeping baby. How could they proffer any type of refusal with a five-million dollar commission per soldier for minimal risk? Let the man play the role of Napoleon Bonaparte if he wanted to, as long as his money was good.
“Do we have a deal?”
“On one condition,” Butcher Boy said, leaning forward with his face rock-hard. “I don’t care how much you put on the table, Hall. When my employer pays me to do a job, he does so because he can’t do the job himself. And since I like to be Judge, Jury and Executioner of my command, then I take the lead when I’m in the field. I will not jeopardize the safety of my unit for any price. Nor will I allow someone with no combat experience to take leadership of a company when he hasn’t so much as laid a finger on a weapon. But I will concede to your demands because of the factor of minimal risk. But if an imminent threat arises, one that would compromise the safety of my team, then the command becomes mine.”
“So terse,” said Hall.
“That’s my one condition.”
Obsidian Hall leaned forward to counter. “Mr. Butcher Boy, let’s get one thing straight right now, shall we? Tomorrow we leave for Turkey. If you do not want to abide by my rules, then I’ll have the chopper readied for you within ten minutes. And that goes for your team. Do you really think guys like you are so unique?” He fell back and barked a laugh. “Guys like you are a dime a dozen.”
Butcher Boy looked around, noting the faces of a team that had been together so long there was an umbilical tie between them. No words had to be spoken. The looks on their faces said it all: compromise.
Obsidian Hall relented, however. “But with negotiations being what they are, then I agree to your term,” he said. “It would be prudent to hand over military authority to those who are most capable of handling the situation, should a threat arise. But until that time, Mr. Butcher Boy, first there’s God, and then there’s me.”
Butcher Boy nodded, the agreement sealed. “You haven’t told us about the mission.”
“It’s not really a mission,” he told him. “More like an expedition to an unchartered domain.”
“You’re taking us on a hike?” This came from the freckle-faced Irishman whose red hair was closely cropped. He was, fittingly, called Red.
Hall nodded. “Tomorrow,” he began, “we’ll be heading for Turkey where you will all commit to serve as my team.”
“We’re essentially bodyguards, then,” said Red.
Hall looked at him straightforwardly. A facsimile of the man sat beside him, a brother perhaps, except this man’s hair was blond, but their features uncannily the same. “Your job will be to protect my backside and make sure that I walk away alive and well,” he told him.
“And how will payment be made?” asked the blond man.
“I will forward two million dollars to your account immediately,” he said.
“And the other three million?” asked the Aussie.
“Upon my safe return, then I will send the balance to your accounts.” And then: It’s not much of a gamble, gentlemen. Do your job, see that I’m protected, and none of you will have to work another day in your life. That I promise. If you agree, then I’ll have the money wired to your accounts within fifteen minutes. If not . . .” He pointed toward the direction of the helipad. “Then off you go.” He brought the crystal glass to his lips, and took a sip while waiting for a response.
Butcher Boy looked at Aussie, who nodded in agreement, then to Red and his brother, who also nodded acceptance. “We agree,” Butcher Boy said evenly.
Obsidian Hall lifted his glass in cheer. “Very good. I love to negotiate terms.” He then snapped his fingers to the Hindu man, who bowed and left the room. He focused his attention on the mercenaries at the table. “Right now, two million dollars is being wired to your accounts,” he informed them. “And by this time, come a day or two, I’ll be sitting on the throne where humanity first began.” Nobody knew what he was talking about. They simply chalked it up as the ramblings of another eccentric billionaire. “Salud,” said Hall, raising his glass.
Beyond the observation window, the bull sharks continued to swim in perfect circles.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ankara, Turkey
Following Day
After landing at the Esenboğa Airport in Ankara, Turkey late in the afternoon, John Savage put himself up at the Swissôtel Ankara Hotel. The room was moderately spartan with a wide double bed, a combination of travertine tile and Berber carpeting, and a balcony that overlooked Ankara. It was fairly unremarkable and far from some of the luxurious venues he was accustomed to in the past. Tonight, however, Ankara was just a place for him to lay his hat.
He stood before the bathroom mirror staring at his own reflection. He looked tired and gaunt with the gray moons surrounding his eyes and the encroachment of the five o’clock shadow making him look fatigued. Yet he remained a classically handsome man with angular features and dark hair, luminous blue eyes and a Romanesque-shaped nose, standing on a packed six-foot-one frame of one hundred ninety pounds of lean muscle.
Feeling refreshed after splashing water across his face, he left the bathroom, removing his cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar as he went, tossed them on the bed, and felt an odd sense of liberation.
Standing by the door were two aluminum suitcases, one the size of a child’s lunchbox. He picked up the small case and brought it to the bed, where he undid the clasps and lifted the lid.
His Glock, suppressor and ammo clips were lying inside molded foam. He picked up the gun, felt the heft of its weight, and pointed it at his mirror image across the room. In quick succession he pulled the trigger in a series of dry clicks, the barrel pointing to his center of body mass, and then a couple to the head. When he was done, he stared at his image for a long moment before returning the weapon back to its molding.
After locking the case, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed a quick-dial number.
“Yes.” It was the assistant director of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano.
“It’s me,” said Savage. “I’m in Ankara.”
“Good.”
“I’ll be taking transportation to the Göbekli site in the morning, which should take a good part of the day to get there.”
“Make sure you keep us posted.”
Savage didn’t answer; he simply snapped the phone shut. Within a few strides, he was able to cross the
room to stand before the glass doors leading to the balcony. Outside, the streets of Ankara were alive. It was going to be a long night, he thought—probably without sleep. But in the morning he would head off to Göbekli Tepe, find the woman, and put a bullet in her head.
#
Göbekli Tepe
Late Afternoon
The day was a hot one at the Göbekli Tepe dig site and the air a brownish hue after a sandstorm had swept in from the west. Normally, sunsets held the appealing afterglow in rainbow arrays of light. But tonight the sky appeared unclean, the tempest driving in hard from the west with the sand as biting as bee stings.
It had been almost a week since her father disappeared. And despite Noah doing his best to fill the void, he was not her father in so many ways. “A penny for your thoughts,” said Noah in his English clip, as he sidled up next to her.
Alyssa was sitting on a carved stone, one of many positioned in a ring believed to be a part of the Göbekli Tepe amphitheater, with a thousand-mile stare. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?” She continued to maintain that faraway look.
“Not so,” he said, taking the seat beside her.
Now they were both looking at the bas-relief of lizard, each waiting for the other to open up. And then: “Are you all right, Ms. Alyssa?”
She nodded. “I’m getting there,” she told him. “Losing a parent is a way of life. But it’s never easy, is it?”
Noah concurred with a nod of his head. “No,” he answered, “it’s not. But you learn how to live with it over time. Your father was my best friend and has been for more than thirty years. It’s kind of like losing a brother, if you know what I mean.”
She leaned into him and he corralled her in with a sweep of his arm. She still kept that faraway look.
“I just wanted to tell you that everything’s in motion,” he said. “I have a team on its way so protection won’t be an issue. The Turkish Minister of Cultural Antiquities has given a thumbs-up for a second attempt as soon as their two members arrive from the Istanbul Institute. The team’s assembled. The gear, food and bedding—we’re ready.”
She sighed, and then closed her eyes. “This is it,” she said softly.
Noah looked skyward, at the direction of what appeared to be another tempest brewing from the southwest. There was no doubt a storm was approaching. “Yes,” he said. “This is it.”
#
Aboard the Seafarer
Butcher Boy, Aussie, Red and his brother, who preferred the moniker Magnum since it sounded far more machismo compared to his real name of Carroll, were sitting at a table with Obsidian Hall on the upper deck that overlooked the bull sharks.
“Gentlemen, you’re now two million dollars richer.” The commandos whooped and hollered, high fiving one another. Obsidian smiled, bringing the glass of cognac to his lips for a quick taste, then turned his attention to Butcher Boy. “Tell me,” he began, “why the name Butcher Boy?”
Butcher Boy stared for a long moment, making Obsidian wonder if he’d ventured too far with this simple line of questioning. “Does it matter?”
Obsidian smiled. “Should I tell you then, Mr. Michael Donnatelli?” He faced him with that annoying smile of amusement, that of man knowing he held the upper hand. “It is Michael Donnatelli, correct?” Obsidian leaned forward in his chair. “Do you honestly think I would hire you—any of you—without doing extensive research into your backgrounds?” He then beckoned to his valet by raising his glass, indicating a much needed refill. The little Hindu man complied by pouring from a crystal decanter. When he left Obsidian’s side, Hall no longer carried a smile but had the look of a man spoiling for an argument. “Four years ago,” he began evenly, “you were in charge of a unit in Afghanistan which went into a village after raping—what, a sixteen-year-old girl in front of her family before ordering their massacre?—you absconded from service and left your team to suffer the consequences, with most of them receiving the death penalty.” He slowly fell back into his seat. “You’ve been on the run ever since,” he added. “The name Butcher Boy was derived from that single, horrific act of inhumanity, wasn’t it?”
Butcher Boy worked the muscles in the back of his jaw.
“Aussie. Or should I say Mark Gordon?” he directed to the Australian with the downturned eye. “You’re not much of a prize either, are you? Being a man who peddled the flesh of young girls in the Philippines, killing anyone who contested your trade until an outfit bested your team. And in return you impressively killed off your adversary, his team, and the six innocent children he was peddling.”
“I saved them from a life of misery,” he defended.
“That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? Saving them from a life that was once your trade?”
Aussie’s face was turning crimson.
“And the two brothers,” he said, facing them. “Two brothers who nailed their souls to the devil’s altar the moment they became a working team of hit-men with more than a dozen kills to their names. Quite impressive, to say the least.”
Everyone at the table appeared confused. “Is there a reason why you’re bringing this up, mate?” asked Aussie.
“Absolutely,” he said calmly, sensing that he had lit a fuse around him. “But I also want you to know that these are also the reasons why I hired you, the reasons that will make you all very rich men.” He lifted his glass in toast. “I wanted the absolute best in the game. And I have it in you: Ex-military from elite forces with elite skills and no conscience. There’s an odd feeling of comfort knowing that I’m surrounded by some of the deadliest men in the world.”
Obsidian could see their chests swell with pride. He had purposely taken a volatile situation and defused it for the sake of seeing how quickly he could manage this team by playing on their emotions, self-value and pride—a psychological tool that would benefit him later in Eden, when he ordered them to slaughter everyone not in his employ.
He looked right at Butcher Boy and smiled. This will be right up your alley, he thought.
With that same annoying and arrogant smile that was so much of his makeup, he said, “Gentlemen, tomorrow we leave for Turkey. So ready yourselves.” His attention then turned to the bull sharks who circled in endless loops, the creatures having no other purpose in life but to entertain him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Göbekli Tepe Dig Site
Late Noon
Alyssa Moore was wrapping things up at the Göbekli site. She had forwarded informational discs regarding her study of Göbekli Tepe to the NYU Archaeology Department, and was checking the equipment needed for Eden when the flap of her tent pulled back and a man leaned inward. “Ms. Moore?” he asked. “Alyssa Moore?”
She powered down the thermal imager and placed it on the cot beside her. The man she was looking at was strikingly handsome with angular and rawboned features; even from a distance of ten feet she could see the man’s dazzling blue eyes. Her eyes were quick to enamor until she saw the Roman Catholic collar and the insignia of the Vatican on the pocket of the man’s shirt.
She got to her feet and approached the man who did not venture inside, but stood at the threshold of the tent’s entry.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice held the soft touch of appeal, nonetheless.
“Are you Ms. Moore? I was told this was her tent. I apologize for the intrusion,” he said, managing a feigned smile, “but the flap of a tent makes for poor knocking.”
Alyssa had her hair up in a tight bun, revealing more of her pixie-like face. “You’ve found her,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“If I could have just a moment of your time,” he said.
“For?”
He leaned his head outside the tent, looked skyward, and then looked at her with a pinched look. “I know it’s late in the day, Ms. Moore, but it’s still hot out here. Would it be all right if I came inside for a spell?”
Her eyes flared with the sudden realization of her inhospitality. “I am so sorry
,” she said. “Please, Father, come in.”
John Savage entered the tent and allowed the flap to fall behind him. “I’m not a priest,” he said.
She appeared puzzled as she looked at the Roman Catholic band around his neckline. “Then why the collar?” she asked.
“My name is John Savage,” he said, putting on his most inviting charm and extending his hand. “I’m an emissary from the Church.”
“You mean the Vatican?”
“They’re one and the same. Yes.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Savage?”
Savage was holding a small silver case no larger than a child’s lunchbox. He lifted it. “May I place this somewhere? I’ve been carrying it forever.”
“Of course.” She gestured to the nearest table.
He placed the case down, and then faced her with his hands clasped in front of him in an attitude of prayer, trying to look as docile as he could just before the killing moment. “Please,” he began, his false smile never wavering, “I hope you accept my condolences for the loss of your father.”
She nodded, with a raised eye in suspicion. “Thank you,” she said. “And what is the reason for your visit to Göbekli Tepe?”
“Yes, of course.” He shifted his feet and cleared his throat, trying to appear nervous. “Like I said, I am from the Church—”
“The Vatican,” she corrected.
She’s a real spitfire. “Yes. The Vatican. And we’ve been following your father’s progress regarding his hunt for the Garden of Eden with great interest.”
“Really?” The level of her eye increased. “Why would that be since the Vatican—” She raised her fingers and flexed them to emphasize the word Vatican “—once considered my father’s expedition to be nothing more than tabloid fodder?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“My father asked for an endowment from the Vatican’s Administration,” she said, “with an offer to share in any unearthed antiquities, only to receive a response from the Holy See who invited him to seek other financial venues, since the search for Eden would be nothing more than a financial burden.”
