Assassin's Code

by Jonathan Maberry

  There was also a smaller zippered case containing a complete toolkit useful for everything from rewiring a toaster to, for example, de-arming a booby-trapped briefcase.

  Back when I was a cop, we had specialists to come in and do this sort of thing. They were very brave men and women who had jobs I never envied. In the Rangers I had some basic bomb-handling courses, but it wasn’t until I began working for the DMS that I learned how to do this sort of thing for real.

  It did occur to me—now, I mean—that it would have been more practical to have searched the cars and then asked Krystos for the combination before I shot him. Can’t unring a bell, though.

  I took the toolkit and the briefcase into the bathroom and closed the door.

  I removed a tiny electronics detector and ran it over the case. As expected, the locks were wired. The question now was whether they had a simple intrusion trigger or a dead-man’s fail-safe. I ran the scanner over every inch of the case and matched the readings against the unit’s stored records of over three thousand trigger variations. The reading was not one hundred percent, but it was weighted heavily toward the locks being simple antitheft. They’d blow if the wrong combination was entered too many times on the coded touch pad, or if the locks were tampered with.

  However, when I ran the scanner over the front and back of the case there was no electronic signature. I smiled a larcenous little smile and set the case on the closed lid of the toilet seat and pulled my RRF. The blade flicked into place with hardly a sound, and I took a breath and then stabbed the case. Not all the way through, only enough to cut through the side, then I sawed a line through the leather and compressed cardboard. Nothing blew up.

  “Amateurs,” I sneered.

  This sort of thing was typical of people who didn’t quite grasp the philosophy of security. These are the kinds of people who will spend ten thousand dollars on security alarms and locks for every door and window on the first floor and completely ignore the windows on the second or third floor. Crooks count on that kind of thinking.

  So do guys like me.

  I cut a rectangular piece out of the center of the case, making sure to stay well clear of the locks and the trip wires; then I lifted out the panel and tossed it into the trash can. The resulting hole revealed several file folders and a few assorted items. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Passports for each of the people I’d killed at the CIA safe house, and IDs for four more men whom I had not seen.

  I set those aside and removed the folders and flipped open the top one. There was a sheaf of documents held together with a clunky metal clip. I removed the clip and put it in my shirt pocket. The top sheet had an official seal that matched the tattoo on Krystos’s arm. The seal of the Holy Inquisition. The content of the letter and all of the attached papers were written in Greek. I can speak a little of the language, but I can’t read a word of it.

  It was a speed bump but not a dead end. The field computer had a detachable wand scanner. I ran it over every page in the top folder and set it aside. The second folder had more of the same, as did the third. It wasn’t until I opened the fourth folder that I realized that I had found something that literally took my breath away.

  Beneath the same sort of official-looking cover letter was a series of eight-by-ten glossy surveillance photos of me, Top, Bunny, Khalid, Lydia, and John Smith. On the back of each was a handwritten note in English that included a brief physical description and a summary of our military or police training.

  I recognized the handwriting. I’d seen it a million times on reports from Terror Town and on evaluations of potential staff members being vetted for top secret clearance.

  Hugo Vox.

  “Shit,” I said aloud.

  There was more, and it was worse. Much worse. A thick sheaf of printed pages held together by a heavy binder clip. I stared at the information on the lists and felt an icy hand punch through my chest and close its fingers around my heart.

  I dropped everything and called Church right away.

  Interlude Ten

  The Kingdom of Shadows

  Beneath the Sands

  April 1231 C.E.

  Sister Sophia clutched at the tatters of her habit, pulling them to her to try to hide her nakedness. It was a hopeless task. Her clothes were little more than streamers of black and white. Grimed with dirt and filth, caked with blood.

  A metal grate in the iron door clanged open and a pale hand shoved in a bundle wrapped in cloth and a leather pitcher. Immediately she could smell bread and cooked meat. The grate slammed shut and she listened to hear the soft footsteps fade into silence. Then Sophia sobbed and crawled across the floor toward the food and tore open the bundle. A small loaf of coarse black bread and a leg of something—she could not tell what animal it had come from. The meat was bloody raw inside and charred outside, but it was the first food they had given her in three days. She wept hysterically as she tore at it with her teeth.

  After she’d eaten as much of the meat as she could stomach, she drank from the pitcher. The water was cold but it smelled of sulfur. Then she sagged back, once more trying to hide herself with her rags. It did not matter that there was no one there to see her uncovered skin. She was ashamed in the eyes of God. Ashamed for what she had become.

  She closed her eyes and prayed to Mary, to Jesus, to the angels and saints. Not for rescue—Sister Sophia did not believe that she could be rescued. No, she prayed for death. If it were not a mortal sin she would have taken her own life, or at least tried. She contemplated smashing her head against the rocks, or taking her rags and making a rope of them.

  But that would be suicide, and she would slide further down into the pit if she did that, her soul lost and unredeemable.

  And … worse still, it would be murder.

  She could not bear to touch her stomach, but she could feel it growing, day by day.

  In the other cells along the hall, she could hear babies crying. She could hear the mothers. Some crying, others praying. A few cackling in nonsensical words, their minds broken by the horrors.

  “Mother Mary,” she prayed, “please…”

  Inside her womb, her baby kicked.

  It was sharp and sudden. Vicious. But what else would it be? How could she expect anything but that from a child of a monster?

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Mustapha’s Daily Goods

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 7:31 p.m.

  “Go,” said Church.

  “I think Hugo Vox is working with the Sabbatarians.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I opened the briefcase I took from Krystos and found some stuff. Two things in particular and you are not going to like them. The first is a directory of safe houses all through the Middle East. Nothing newer than January first, though, so it fits with what he might have known before he went into the wind.”

  “I figured as much. I sent out a network-wide warning after your ‘adventures’ today. The CIA has confirmed two other compromised locations, ditto for Barrier, and the Israelis lost one. Right now you’re sitting in the only safe house in Iran that we know for sure was never on Hugo’s radar. As bad as this is, it could be worse. Most of the houses are untouched, so staff was able to evac safely. We might be in the clear there and—”

  “There’s something else,” I said. “Something a whole lot worse.”

  I could hear Church take a breath. After today he was probably wishing he could change his number. “Tell me.”

  I didn’t actually want to tell him. It would be like dropping a hand grenade into his lap.

  “I found a printed list. Fifteen pages of it. Names, social security numbers, home addresses, family members. The works.”

  “Who is on the list?”

  “Everyone who works for the Department of Military Sciences,” I said. “And their families. Rudy’s on that list. My father and brother are on that list. And, Church—?” I said softly, “Circe is on that list, and it says that she’s your daugh
ter.”

  “God…” Church breathed. “Oh my God.”

  The silence became huge, filled with flying debris.

  Church disconnected without another word.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Mustapha’s Daily Goods

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 7:36 p.m.

  I sat on the edge of the tub and stared at the list. My father. My brother and his wife. My nephew. My best friend. Everyone I cared about.

  Hugo Vox. The desire to find and kill him was unbearable.

  If I were in Vox’s place I’d be hiding from Church. Vox seemed to be doing the opposite; he was on the offensive. But to what end? Pissing Church off even more than he already was would not seem to have a happy ending.

  Vox loved chaos, but this seemed like something else. It was vindictive, it was needlessly cruel. What had happened to twist Vox into that kind of monster? Or was this another layer of the real Vox that we were only now seeing? If so, how deep did his corruption go? How deep could it go?

  Those were questions I never wanted to get the answers to.

  Fear crawled like ants under my skin. My hands were shaking so badly that I dropped the papers, which landed heavily on the corner with the chunky binder clip. It made an odd sound as it landed. Not the hollow metal sound you’d expect from a clip; this was a dull thud.

  I snatched it up and peered at it. The clip was heavier than it needed to be to bind papers. I hadn’t paid enough attention to that at first; now I did. I opened the spring-metal jaws and studied the inside. There was a tiny bead of plastic inside, painted the same color as the clip’s body. I grabbed my scanner and ran it over the clip and the electronics detector pinged.

  The little bead was a bug of some kind. But what kind?

  Then I understood. It wasn’t a listening device or another booby trap. It was a backup in case the papers in the briefcase were stolen.

  It was a tracking device.

  “Oh, shit,” I said.

  Two seconds later an explosion rocked the entire house.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Mustapha’s Daily Goods

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 7:38 p.m.

  The blast came from the back of the building and sounded like an entry charge. Someone—almost certainly the Sabbatarians—had blasted through the rear door.

  Ghost leapt out of a dream and onto his feet. He gave a single startled bark and crouched by the closed door, eyes narrowed, ears straight up, fur bristling along his spine. I tore the Beretta out of my shoulder rig and whipped open the door.

  Smoke billowed up the stairwell, and I heard Jamsheed yelling in protest for two seconds before his words were cut off by a meaty thud. No way to tell if he was dead or if they’d clubbed him down.

  “Upstairs!” someone yelled in French. I heard someone reply with a German accent.

  Definitely the Sabbatarians. Pricks.

  My rage howled inside of me. The list of names burned in my mind, and I wanted to hurt these pricks. I wanted to hurt them so bad it was an actual physical ache in my chest.

  But I did it smart. I backtracked to the bedroom and grabbed the grenades, shoved most of them into my pockets; but I pulled the pins on a couple of flash-bangs and dropped them down the stairwell. Then I wrapped one arm around Ghost’s head and the other around my own and huddled down.

  The blasts were massive in the small house, and harsh white light etched the slats on the stair rails and the edges of the framed photographs on all the walls.

  Before the echo had a chance to fade I was up and running; Ghost was right with me. There were six of them with automatic weapons, two with hammers and stakes. Jamsheed lay on the floor; he had a vicious bruise above his right eyebrow and blood was pooled around his head. Several of the Sabbatarians were kneeling or bent over in pain; most of them were screaming.

  “Hit! Hit! Hit!” I bellowed, and Ghost shook off his pain and weariness and became a white missile of furious bloodlust. He took the closest figure hard, teeth tearing into the man’s inner thigh, high near his crotch. There was a sudden blast of red blood as Ghost’s fangs slashed open the man’s femoral artery.

  I opened up with the Beretta, using double taps on everyone I saw, one to the chest to stall them, one to the head to blast them out of my life. My inner Warrior was screaming at me to kill them all.

  One of the men turned toward me and even though he was dazed from the flash-bang, he opened up with an AK-47, the rounds chopping into the stairwell inches behind me. I closed to zero distance and put two into his face. As he fell his finger clutched around the trigger and hot rounds stitched a line up the wall and across the ceiling.

  Ghost barked a warning and I turned in time to dodge away from a man raising a pistol with both hands. He shot where I had been and I shot where he was. The man staggered out of sight.

  Behind me someone screamed in terrible pain as Ghost went for his throat. The scream ended with a wet gurgle.

  There were five men down already and three on their feet. The flash-bangs had done their jobs in the confined space of the entry hall. These men were disoriented and, even though they were armed, they had no aim. I killed two of them before the slide locked back on my Beretta. The last guy didn’t have a pistol, and he thought I was helpless with an empty gun, so he rushed me with the stake. I used the pistol to bash the stake aside and then I snapped his leg with a side-thrust kick. He screamed and twisted down to the floor, and I rechambered the kick and slammed my heel against his ear, flinging him onto his side.

  I swapped out the magazine as I spun around. Everybody was down. Ghost stood over the second man he’d killed, and his muzzle was black with blood.

  The back door was a charred ruin, hanging in splinters from a single twisted hinge, and I could see a black sedan parked outside. Around me were the dead and dying. My rage was still boiling, but my inner Cop voice was telling me to dial it down, to find someone with a pulse. To get some answers.

  And then a figure stepped into the doorway.

  Tall, lithe, dressed in a black chador. I pointed my gun at her. Ghost growled from deep in his chest.

  She said, “Joseph—they’re coming!”

  Instantly a hail of bullets tore into the doorframe as Violin dove into the room.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Mustapha’s Daily Goods

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 7:42 p.m.

  The bullets filled the air as Violin hit the floor, rolled over a dead man, grabbed him, and pulled him into a sitting position to serve as a shield.

  Ghost looked to me for a command. To him she was another potential enemy, a danger to the pack. With a word I could order him to tear her apart or accept her into the pack.

  “Home!” I snapped. It was the word that would change everything about how he would react to her. “Home” was code for “friend.” Instantly Ghost’s gaze shifted away from her and refocused on the barrage that continued to tear apart the doorway. He hunkered down behind the man whose throat he had torn out, bristling, muscles trembling as he waited for the command and the opportunity to fight.

  Violin turned to me and tore away the chador that hid her face and body.

  I don’t know what I expected to see. Certainly not the “monster” she considered herself to be. She was beautiful, but not in the way that Circe is. Not curvy and elegant; she had none of the fineness of features that belonged on the covers of fashion magazines. Her features were sharper, more foxlike than feline, with intelligent eyes, sharply defined cheekbones, thin lips that were curled into a wicked combat smile, and a body like a dancer’s. Small breasts, long limbs, superb tone. She wore black formfitting clothes with lots of pockets and cross belts for weapons. On a strap slung across her body was a compact Micro Tavor-21 Israeli bullpup assault rifle with an extended thirty-two-round magazine. Very sexy. She reminded me of Grace. Not in looks, but in her air of competence and lethal potential. It took a single microsecond to take all of this in.
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  “How many?” I yelled.

  “Too many,” she said. “Two full teams. Twenty at least.”

  “Christ.”

  “Maybe more in front.”

  We looked at each other in the way soldiers will on a battlefield, gauging each other’s competence and skills. It was a lightning-fast conversation that would have been slowed down by words. She nodded to me and I nodded back.

  The hail of bullets slowed and I heard men yelling orders. They were coming.

  “Call it,” I said.

  “Front,” said Violin.

  “Back,” I agreed.

  She spun around and ran in a fast crouch toward the store; I pulled a grenade out of my pocket. Not a flash-bang this time. As shadows filled the destroyed doorway I pulled the pin and threw it.

  “Ghost—frag out!”

  Ghost flattened behind the corpse.

  The grenade hit the floor right inside the door and took a short bounce just as the second wave of Sabbatarians rounded the corner. The frag exploded at waist height, blowing the men apart. There were terrible screams from the attackers who hadn’t been in the direct blast radius. Men and women. Then gunfire.

  I dove forward and slid chest-first to the doorway, my pistol out in front, and even before I stopped sliding I began firing. I emptied the second magazine into the mass of them, shooting for the center of any man-shaped shadow, firing the magazine dry as bullets tore through the air three feet above me. They couldn’t see me through the smoke, and the confusion was too great for them to grasp that I was shooting from a prone position.

  Ghost barked, wanting to be in the middle of this, but this was a gunfight; there was no place for him.

  Behind me the front door was blasted to splinters by heavy-caliber gunfire. A second later I heard the distinctive pop-pop-pop of the compact MTAR-21. And more screams.