Omega: A Jack Sigler Thriller

ONE

The pain was everything.

Bound in darkness, the man’s confinement was absolute. If the man’s eyes were open or closed, he couldn’t tell. He perceived no visual difference between the two states. He longed to speak, to use the words, to free himself from the never-ending agony. But his tongue was swollen and dry in his mouth. The dry heat of the room confining him had long ago sucked all moisture from his flesh.

His body — a modern miracle of his own scientific genius — would keep him alive, struggling against the damage caused by incessant heat and dry air. He was given the most meager amount of water daily. It was really just enough to keep him alive. Without the genetic tinkering to his DNA, he would have died long ago.

His body was a marvel, but there was only so much it could do. He needed to use his voice to escape his present confinement, but that ability was denied to him. Each day when the small, slow stream of liquid dribbled into his open and waiting mouth, he quickly swished it around his swollen tongue, hoping to moisten his mouth enough that he might speak the words. But while his mouth and tongue could make the movements, the breath needed to vocalize the sounds never came to him. In the end, he would swallow the tiny portion of water, never feeling it hit his stomach, and the days would go on and on.

His last visit from his abusive captor had been, by his own reckoning, at least seven months ago. It was hard to keep track of the days, but he forced himself to do it anyway. Besides the daily struggle to speak, and his thoughts of the ways he would get revenge, maintaining a mental log of the days was the only thing to keep his mind off the pain.

His nervous system fired wave after wave of angry buzzing sensations into his brain, and the pain never stopped. He guessed he had not slept in close to a year — the pain was simply too much to endure. His mind could never rest enough to summon the elusive slumber.

Consciousness was both a blessing and a curse. At first, the agony was so much he thought he would lose his mind completely. But his body’s miraculous healing abilities helped to keep him on the edge of sanity. He wondered whether his captor would know that. He wondered a lot of things about his tormentor.

Despite the constant pain, the man was sometimes able to focus his thoughts with a tremendous effort of will, blocking out the stimuli, allowing him to think and plan. These sessions were of varying duration, although in the dark and deep underground, he was never quite sure of elapsed time on a minute by minute or hourly basis. The one thing he knew without question was that the duration would be short, and afterward the waves of unending suffering would return. The surge of pain, when his willpower was finally exhausted, would be overwhelming, and he would silently scream for what he imagined was the rest of the day.

The thing that was more maddening than his imprisonment and torment was the location his captor had chosen for confinement. He knew exactly where in the world he was. He even knew the room. He should after all — it belonged to him. He was trapped in the bowels of a facility he’d designed and paid for, with no way out.

Yet.

He knew that sooner or later, someone would come to free him. He had planned for this contingency. He would have been foolish to even contemplate immortality without having a plan for incarceration. How horrible to be confined eternally. As terrible as his anguish was, he knew it would be finite. He had left the entirety of his escape plan with four different individuals, upon whom he could count implicitly. They would secure his release.

Then, armed with the words, his regenerating DNA and his allies, he would be free to seek out the final prize he sought. The item was so close to his present location. Just minutes away. With that object in his grasp, he would exact his revenge on his tormentor and then on the world. No one and nothing would stop him. He would be immortal. Immune to harm. And with the fabled power the item he sought—invincible.

The pieces would be falling into place on the surface. The last of his wealth would have been accumulated. Forces would be gathering. Traps would be springing. His opponents would be closing in, and his allies would be ready. He would pit them all against one another, and when they thought they had the upper hand, he would move in for the kill. His secret weapon waited, hiding in plain sight. He had transmitted the necessary information to his general, and no doubt, the different installations around the globe belonging to his key adversary would have been eliminated by now.

Soon, his adversary and torturer would be alone, his hideous failed experiments destroyed, his resources used up and even the Chess Team would turn against him. With a little luck, Jack Sigler and the adversary would kill each other.

TWO

Jack Sigler was on his knees, in the worst pain of his life.

He had come up against a lot of opponents, and he had even faced unimaginable creatures and otherworldly threats, but the thing he hated the most was waiting. And worst of all was waiting for this. Right now, looking down at him as he held the small red velvet box aloft, Sara Fogg’s face was unreadable. And Sigler’s heart was breaking.

“I said, ‘Will you marry me?’ It’s generally a yes or no kind of question.” The broad smile that had been on his face the first time he’d uttered the question was slowly sliding off it now, like an indecisive snail. He could feel the smile. It had turned into a half-crazy leer as he forced it to remain on his face, while she looked down at him with no emotion showing on hers.

“Sara?”

“Jack, I… I… Stand up for a minute,” she gently took his hand and helped him to stand, but he twisted and sat on the bed instead. She sat down next to him, and gently placed her hand on his face, turning it to look at her. “You know I love you, Jack.”

“There’s a ‘but’ coming. So this is a ‘no?’” Sigler began.

“Hush. It’s not a ‘no’, silly,” Fogg smiled. “It’s just that it’s complicated. You know that. You have your life of danger, hunting terrorists and genetically engineered monstrosities, and I have my career with the CDC. We hardly see each other between your missions and my dealing with outbreaks in Africa and the jungles of Borneo. We catch up in hotel rooms around the world, or we spend a few blissful days here in your room in this bunker — with no windows even. And we’re trying to raise a fifteen year old girl somehow in the midst of all this madness.”

“I know,” Sigler sighed. “I know it’s not perfect. But these were never things I planned for. I had no idea Fiona would come into my life. I never pictured myself as a parent. I never expected I’d fall in love with a woman who thinks I can sing well, because to her she smells roses instead of hearing a dog howl.”

Fogg laughed and ran a finger through her dark hair. She had kept it short in the past, but she was growing it out now. The subject of her Sensory Processing Disorder had become a playful joke between them, when they had their few intimate moments.

“It actually smells like regurgitated orange peels, but I still love to see you do it — on those five or six times a year, when we actually get to shower together,” her smile faded. “This is what I’m talking about. How are we supposed to be married to each other with our lives like they are? Our regular jobs aside, you’re searching for your abducted parents, we’re all constantly dealing with security like at the White House—”

“Actually,” Sigler interrupted, “Endgame has better security than the White House…”

“I know, that’s not the point,” she stood and strode around the small room that served as Sigler’s personal quarters. “I can’t ask you to give up your life. Your work with Chess Team is too important. I get that, and so does Fiona. I could quit working for the CDC and just assist here, but even that isn’t an ideal life. How do we make marriage work, when we’re running for our lives from armed incursions and giant mutated spiders—”

“To be fair, there was just the one spider,” Sigler pointed out.

“You know what I mean. I love you. And your foster daughter loves you. We have, despite all odds, built a family in this crazy world of yours. You live in this top-secret base in New Hampshire, with constant danger both here and abroad. You’re hardly ever here. We cherish the days when we see you, but you and your sister are off on this hunt for a man who could be the historical Hercules, for God’s sake.” Fogg sat on the bed next to Sigler. She ran her fingers through his dark shaggy hair. “How exactly do you picture a marriage working?”

“Look Sara, I know it’s not the normal life. I want it to be different too. Asya and I need to tie up this Hercules thing. You know that. The rest of the team are starting to wonder if I’m ever coming back. But even when this thing is done, there will always be times when we’re apart for long stretches. It’s just the nature of our jobs. We already talked about why I can’t leave mine. I don’t want you to have to leave your work either. You’re good at it and you love it. What I wanted to do, was just cement our commitment to each other. There isn’t anything we can do about the practical stuff, but I wanted you to know how serious I am.”

Fogg leaned in and kissed him. When they parted, she looked up at him with tears glistening in her eyes, but no drops had yet fallen down her smooth cheeks. “I love you. You are a damn romantic fool, you know that? Yes, I’ll marry you. I have no idea how we’ll make it work, but yes.”

He smiled. “Really?”

“Really.”

THREE

The view of the valley was a V shape, between two low green hills. The chemical weapons plant, a bland affair with slabs of rectilinear gray concrete and rolls of razor-wire fencing, stood in the middle of the valley. Several undernourished soldiers in bluish-gray uniforms walked glumly around the perimeter, but their patterns were lazy rather than random. Guard towers, like in a prison complex, occupied the four corners of the facility, but the men stationed in the towers were armed with old Soviet era AK-47 assault rifles, just like the men ambling around the perimeter. To the east, a small dirt road led back to the main tarmac and the town of Sonbong to the south.

From the hills, through the V, the facility looked like a target at the end of a long shooting gallery. The small grassy hillside held four oblong bushes, gray rocks and large tufts of brilliant green grass. When one of the bushes snickered, one of the others spoke.

“Rook, we’re supposed to be undercover here. What’s your problem?”

“Sorry, Queen,” Stan Tremblay, callsign: Rook said, shifting in his ghillie suit. Like the other members of Chess Team, he had once been a Delta Operator. That changed when the team became part of a black budget, ultra-secret organization known as Endgame. The ghillie suit, made of netting and artificial foliage, made the wearer appear to be a shrub — provided the wearer stayed still. The effect when Rook moved was as if the bush had taken on a life of its own and rolled over on the ground. “It’s hard to take these douchenozzles seriously. Plus, my ass is starting to ache.”

The first bush that had spoken, Rook’s teammate and current field leader, Zelda Baker, callsign: Queen, shifted as well. “They do seem pretty lazy, but the state of your ass is not my primary concern here.”

Another bush spoke. “My ass is so asleep it’s snoring.” The third bush was larger than the others. The man inside, Erik Somers, callsign: Bishop, was a huge mountain of a man, yet generally the most patient and least talkative of the team. “When are these guys gonna do something? We’ve been up here in the hide for a month, and they still have yet to send out or receive a shipment. By the time something happens, my muscles might have atrophied.”

“You too, Bishop? This is supposed to be deep cover. Quit breaking radio-silence, and stop moving.” The bush that was Queen, shook briefly toward the top, and Rook could tell Queen was shaking her head back and forth in disgust, the way she frequently did at his antics.

They each wore small tactical radios, so they could communicate remotely. They had earpieces and thin microphones that stuck to their throats with a gooey glue-like substance. But instead of relying on the radios, they were speaking out loud. If any North Korean soldiers had been in the vicinity, their position would have been given away. A softer voice spoke up now, from the receivers in their ears.

“At least you two still have asses. Mine fell off last week, and I’ve been looking for it ever since.” Shin-dae Jung, callsign: Knight, the team’s sniper, was in a different location, far closer to the weapons plant.

The bush that was Queen rolled over. “Sweet Jesus, is there no such thing as military bearing?”

Rook laughed, and his ghillie suit shook. Soon Bishop was snickering too. “Blue, seriously. What the hell? Why are we sitting here in the boonies? Either this place is or isn’t concocting chemical weapons. Either way, let’s blow it up and go home. Anything so I don’t have to listen to these clowns anymore.”

A softer, but more serious voice sounded through their earpieces.

“Sorry team. Gaining intel on this facility has been sketchy at best. Everything points to chemical weapons, but I’ve been reluctant to just send you in. Who knows what conditions are like in there. You might attack the place and wind up sucking in lungfuls of airborne weaponized anthrax. Or it could be a prison, and if you blow it up, you’d be killing hundreds of innocent civilians and protestors. Until we get some better intelligence, you’re gonna have to stay put. I can’t even offer you any satellite coverage on this one. North Koreans would go ballistic if they detected a satellite or a spy plane overhead. Best I can do is this remote communication. Their systems are not sophisticated enough to pick up our tactical radios, and even if they were, they’d never break the encryption.” Tom Duncan, callsign: Deep Blue, the team’s founder and handler, was back at their headquarters in New Hampshire. His voice was sympathetic, and none of the team would argue with the man. He was, after all, a former President of the United States.

“Maybe it’s time we shook things up then,” Queen said.

“What are you thinking, Queen?” Deep Blue’s voice sounded concerned on the radio.

“Knight, how close are you to the building?” Queen asked.

“Did you see that guard on the southeast tower spit just now?” came the reply in their earpieces.

“Seriously?” Queen asked.

“It landed on my leg.”

“Damn, Knight,” Rook chuckled, then sat up and pulled his ghillie suit mask off his head. He turned to Bishop’s location, only to find that Bishop had already removed his mask too. Over the last week, Knight had gotten more and more brazen with how close he crept to the building. He was now inside the lazy route the guards walked around the building, inching around as a bush that any of the guards should have noticed wasn’t there the previous week.

“See if you can make your way toward the windows on the eastern side and we’ll let you know when it’s clear so you can stand up and peek in,” Queen said, then she sat up and pulled her own mask off. “These damn things are stifling.”

“Risky, but understandable. Good call, Queen. I’ll check back with you in an hour. Deep Blue out.”

With masks off, the three team members in the hills were still camouflaged. Their faces were painted with forest swirls of green and black, and both Queen and Rook wore black and green polyester buffs on their heads to hide their blonde hair. Bishop, with his chestnut Iranian-American skin, left his shaved bald head exposed, although it was painted with the same camo as his face. Rook procured an energy bar and tore the packet open. He began to munch on it, small pieces of the bar lodging in his month of heavy beard growth, which had begun as a carefully sculpted goatee, but was now a mess of hair thick enough for small creatures to nest in it. Bishop began stretching his shoulders, moving in small movements. Although he was over six thousand feet from the occasionally watchful eyes of the plant’s guard towers, he knew that sudden or large movements might attract the human eye. He was camouflaged enough for the distance, even without the ghillie mask, but he wouldn’t tempt things with a big arm sweep. Queen lay down on the ground on her back, then flexed her neck sideways, procuring a loud pop as her cervical vertebrae realigned.

The three knew it would take Knight at least two hours to creep the thirty feet he needed to cover to get to the window on the east side of the building undetected. He was, after all, a shrub, to the eyes of the occasionally passing North Korean soldiers. He had to move in such tiny increments, that they would not even notice the movement, allowing the men time to adjust to the bush’s location in their subconscious, so they wouldn’t suddenly realize there shouldn’t be a shrub under the window, when suddenly there was.

Knight was always amused at how the human mind worked. He loved the small subtle visual tricks you could play on the mind. He recalled a TV show he had seen where a person would be stopped on the street for directions, and while the person was answering, two men would carry a large piece of furniture between the asker and the askee, obscuring the asker from view. During the brief moment, where the workers moved the furniture, the asker would step away and another person would step in to receive the directions once the sofa or whatever was past the scene. It was amazing that most people never noticed they were replying to a completely new person. As a sniper, Knight found many of these small lapses in human attention to his advantage. But even still, he knew it would take him some time to get to the window.

On the hill, Queen, Rook and Bishop sat silently, eating small vacuum-packed energy foods and drinking small sips of water from Camelbak water reservoirs hidden under their ghillie suits, the camouflage-painted drinking tubes secured to their shoulders, so a simple tilt of the head would allow them to grip the bite valves with their mouths. Despite the brief lapse in protocol, the three stayed silent for most of the hour, lost in their own thoughts. When the first hour had nearly elapsed, a shrill voice shattered the silence.

“Ma! Eolleun il-eona!” The voice was high-pitched and screechy. Queen, Rook and Bishop turned to look behind them on the hill and saw a small squad of five North Korean soldiers, each armed with a fully automatic North Korean produced Type-58 version of an AK-47 rifle. Most of those weapons were pointed at the team, although some shook, the hands holding them unsteady. The men looked no more than eighteen years old, but it was difficult for Queen to tell their ages.

The man that had spoken, yelled again. “Eolleun il-eona!”

“Party’s over,” Rook said, slowly raising his hands above his head.

Knight’s voice came over their earpieces. “He said ‘Stop’ and ‘Get on your feet.’ He sounds upset. I’d do what he says.” Knight was of South Korean ancestry. He was fluent in the South Korean language, and it was similar in some respects to the language here, even though he had remarked that the North Koreans had challenging accents.

Queen slowly stood and looked at the five young terrified soldiers. “Wonderful,” she said.

The man who had ordered them to stand began to shake violently with fear, the barrel of his rifle wavering and swerving, sweat running down his forehead. Then his rifle went off, sending a small burst of bullets at Queen.

FOUR

Deep Blue stood up from his computer chair and stretched his lower back, twisting side to side, then he leaned forward and touched his toes. He took pride in the fact that he was probably the only former US President who could touch his toes. He was young for an ex-president, and he had stayed in good shape through those grueling years. Then he had been forced to play a more active role in the field with Chess Team, reminding him that while he was exceedingly fit, he was still getting on in years. Injuries that would have been mild during his days as an Army Ranger took far longer to heal now. After the last major catastrophe the previous year, where searing spheres of energy had devastated several global population centers, he decided to officially retire himself from the field.

Besides, people in DC were starting to ask him as Tom Duncan, former US President, if he would undertake some humanitarian missions. He was genuinely interested in some, but he had needed to turn them all down.. As far as the world knew, he was simply retired and reclusive. Following the lead started by Jimmy Carter, and later by Richard Nixon in 1985, he was hardly the first former President to refuse secret service protection post-presidency. His stock excuse was that he was enjoying his time fishing and resting after the stress of four years in the White House and several years before that in the capitol.

In truth, his work with Endgame took up all his time. He had formed the organization to combat extreme forms of terrorism, but it had ended up becoming a full-scale assault force for dealing with viral outbreaks, genocidal madmen, marauding cryptids, dimensional incursions and rampaging rock creatures.

Now, just finding time to exercise was a challenge. With the bulk of Chess Team in North Korea, King and Asya frequently coming and going while looking for their abducted parents, keeping his global eye on possible hotspots around the world and assisting and advising with some of the reconstruction after the energy-portal fiasco the previous year, Tom Duncan was exhausted.

It was nearly 10:30 at night, but with the time difference in Korea, Duncan knew he would be awake for several more hours. He looked around the empty computer room. Lewis Aleman, his right-hand man and computer guru, had turned in, and the other staff members had gone home or to their on-station quarters to get some sleep. With little happening for Chess Team in Asia, and with King and Asya at the base, the other support members really weren’t needed to keep tabs on things overnight. Plus, Duncan enjoyed working alone in the electronic womb of the command center.

The central computer room was kitted out with all the latest equipment he could get his hands on using the deep-black Pentagon budgets he had procured for the team before officially leaving office. Large flat-screen monitors lit up the walls, allowing him to keep an eye on the world from a multitude of satellites. He used surveillance cameras too numerous to count and too easily hacked. He even used video streams from field operatives equipped with hidden video cameras on their persons — both those they knew about and those they did not. In the intelligence game of the 21st century, it was all about the cameras.

Besides the large video screens, the room was filled with several workstations and ergonomic chairs. Air-conditioning systems even pumped in a slight scent of jasmine. In the corners of the room were several oxygenating peace lilies and philodendrons, whose vines stretched up to and across the ceiling. Both plants could exist off the artificial lighting in the room, with occasional bursts from solar simulator lamps. They helped to reduce the stress in the room visually, but they also pumped plenty of clean air into the space as well.

Duncan dropped down to the carpeted floor and performed twenty pushups. On the last repetition, he heard the door open.

“Seventy-eight…” he said.

When he looked up, Jack Sigler, callsign: King, was standing in the door with a goofy smile on his face.

“Yeah, right,” King said.

“Even we desk jockeys have to stay in shape, Jack.”

“You are the most in-shape desk jockey I’ve ever seen,” King said.

Duncan stood and walked over to the door. “What’s up?”

“Some good news for a change, Tom,” King rarely used Deep Blue’s first name, although Duncan had, on many occasions, encouraged him to do so, especially when they were alone. Duncan smiled expectantly. He had an idea what this might be.

“Sara and I are engaged,” King said, his grin growing to epic proportions.

Duncan beamed, then hugged King. “Congratulations! That’s fantastic! Does Fiona know yet?”

Fiona, King’s foster daughter, was attending a boarding school nearby at Brewster Academy, where she stayed along with three rotating Endgame bodyguards.

“No, it just happened an hour ago,” King said.

“You popped the question here at HQ? How romantic, Jack.” Duncan raised a disapproving eyebrow.

“I didn’t want to wait. Who knows when Asya and I will have to head out again on another false lead.” King frowned.

Duncan placed his hand gently on his friend’s shoulder. He knew that King was worried for the safety of his missing parents. The Siglers—no, the Machtchenkos, Duncan reminded himself. Their true name had been revealed once King had learned his parents were former Russian spies. They had been missing for several months now. Endgame assumed that Alexander Diotrephes, their former ally and now a possible enemy, held King’s parents. But they had found no proof, and had seen no sign of Peter and Lynn Machtchenko. Nor had they been able to find Alexander, a man better known as the historical Hercules, who, although immortal, was no bastard child of Zeus. For months, King and his sister Asya had been following every lead, but they kept coming up empty.

“You’ll find them. I know you will,” Duncan said. Then, trying to bring the conversation back to the upbeat, he asked, “So when is the happy date?”

King looked up and grinned again.

“Actually, we—”

“I have hit ‘Herculean Society’ Jackpot!” Asya interrupted. She burst into the room, a living projectile fired from the hallway beyond. She was small and lithe, with long dark hair. Stunning to look at, but often deadly serious. She moved to a computer station and brought up an e-mail account.

Initially given the callsign: Hammer, by Queen, as both a nod to the woman’s Soviet heritage and standing her own in a knock-down drag-out fight with Queen when the women first met in Norway, Asya’s callsign was later changed by Deep Blue to a permanent Pawn status. Far from an insulting callsign, the designation was used for temporary team members in the field, but in this instance, it was an honor for Asya — a woman with only basic Russian infantry training — to be included as a long-term member of Chess Team, which was comprised of former Delta soldiers. Asya had made no complaints about the new callsign.

Now the small woman brought up a digital image of a building. “It is here,” she said.

“What are we looking at?” Deep Blue asked. The photo showed the front of a European building with Roman style columns. A statue stood in front. In the foreground was a plaza full of umbrella-covered tables. It could have been any of a number of similar plazas all over Europe, where tourists and locals alike drank beer, ate pizza and ogled passing strangers.

King leaned closer to the image, and brushed his hand through his shaggy dark hair. “Looks like a library.”

Asya turned to the men. “It is. National Library of Malta, in Valletta.”

The woman turned back to the computer and brought up a second digital image. This one showed a drawing of the building, before the installation of the statue in front of it.

“1812. The library was moved to this building from a different location. Notice the circular arch in front of the entrance.”

Both men had. A huge stone circular arch had been erected before the columns, making the two inner columns on either side of the door form the stylized letter H of the Herculean Society, a group of secretive people dedicated to helping Alexander Diotrephes hide certain historical truths and artifacts. King and Pawn had been searching for Society facilities for months, often finding empty office spaces, and in two instances discovering just recently vacated premises. They seemed to always be two steps behind, in their search for Alexander.

Pawn turned to the men and smiled widely. On the normally dour woman’s face, the smile held a sinister look. “The arch was taken down after just two years. This was only image I could find with it. Queen Victoria statue was placed in the exact same location in 1891, covering up any evidence that the arch had ever even been there. If the Society people are not in the library…” She let the thought hang in the air.

“They might be under it,” King finished for her. “Let’s go.” King turned and strode out of the room. Deep Blue watched him go. As Pawn neared the door, following her brother, he called out to her.

“Asya.”

The woman turned.

“Take care of him. And get him to tell you the good news.”

The woman nodded, then hurried after King. Duncan could hear her Russian-accented voice in the hallway as she asked, “What is good news? Blue says you have some.”

Duncan smiled. He hoped the lead in Malta would finally go somewhere. Then he turned back to the ergo chair he liked best, a swiveling thing that resembled a dental patient chair, with a split keyboard on either side, touch screen controllers that swung in front of the user and comfortable memory foam seating from head to toe.

He activated his radio for the Chess Team members in North Korea and immediately heard rapid gunfire. His good mood was crushed as his heart began to race.

FIVE

“You little shit!”

Queen looked down at her left hip and saw her blood starting to soak through the artificial fabric of the ghillie suit. She looked back up incredulously at the shaking North Korean soldier. “You fucking shot me.”

The wound was shallow — just a nick for Queen, who had taken far worse injuries, but the fact that the soldier had unintentionally loosed six rounds in her direction, made her furious. Most of the bullets had gone into the soil around her, but the one had creased her hip.

The soldiers were shouting at each other now in a heated argument, and Queen quickly determined that no one was in charge. She could probably kill all five with only her hands before they got off another shot, but amateurs were often unpredictable. It made them dangerous. So she hesitated. Plus, she knew Rook had something special in store for them.

Instead of moving toward the men, she took a step backward.

The men ceased arguing and they all trained their weapons more carefully at her. Behind her, she could hear Bishop breathing slowly and regularly.

“Geulaeseo?” she asked in Korean, based on Knight’s radio advice. So? What now?

“Son deul-eo!” the soldier that shot her screamed.

“Hands up,” Knight translated in her ear.

Queen squinted at the man.

“Quee-eeen,” Rook implored her from behind.

“SON DEUL-EO!”

Queen spat on the ground and stared at the man.

“Bil-eo meog-eul!” the man shouted and stepped forward. As he did so, his ankle pushed against a cleverly concealed tripwire Rook had placed, attached to a modified trigger device. The ground in front of the soldier exploded upward with an ear-shattering boom, the C4 explosive in the M18A1 Claymore mine spraying one-eighth inch diameter steel balls directionally through all five North Korean soldiers, effectively turning the young men into little more than perforated meat bags. The five soldiers were dead as their shattered remains collapsed on the grassy hillside with wet thumps. Queen and the others, on the far side of the device, were blown backward by the blast’s pressure wave. They were spared from the hail of projectiles because they launched in just one direction — toward the enemy.

“Queen, what’s going on?” Deep Blue’s voice came over the radio.

“Communication difficulties. These guys can’t read English.” Queen stood and brushed dirt off her face.

“Explain,” Deep Blue’s voice came back, frustrated.

“Three little words…” Queen began.

Rook chuckled, thinking of the words stamped on the front casing of the Claymore. “Front toward enemy.”

“Target confirmed,” Knight’s voice came over the radio.

“You have visual?” Deep Blue asked, before Queen could do the same.

“Affirmative,” Knight said. “I’m bugging out while everyone is distracted by the blast and heading for you guys.”

Queen turned to Bishop. “Light it up.”

Bishop stepped over to the fourth bush on the hill. A camouflage net, similar to his own ghillie suit, covered the ground, forming the artificial bush. He pulled it back, revealing an AGS-40 Balkan automatic grenade launcher. For this mission, the team had been equipped with primarily Russian armaments, with the exception of Rook’s mines. Each member of the team had SR-3 Vikhr machine guns, but Bishop had decided to bring a little something extra. The Balkan was a tripod-mounted beast that looked like a forward slung cannon, with a giant green side drum that held a chain of caseless 40 mm grenades. He opened fire now on the facility down in the valley. The launcher had a maximum effective range of over 8000 feet, and he was well within that distance.

“Better run, Knight,” Bishop said calmly. With each pull of the trigger, another grenade was fired down the valley, creating a deep plunk noise. The weapon had a firing rate of 400 rounds a minute, but Bishop was shooting leisurely, targeting the guard towers first, then the center of the concrete building. Plumes of orange flame and thick black smoke erupted from the chemical weapons factory, as grenade after grenade exploded in the distance. Soon it was impossible to even see the former facility through all the smoke.

When they heard weapons fire down the slope in front of them, Rook sprayed down the hill with his Vikhr. The few soldiers down the slope ran in all directions without focus, as soon as they realized they were under fire. Then Bishop angled the Balkan down the hill at them, and sent off a few rounds for good measure. He watched as four of the ill-trained soldiers went airborne, grenades detonating all around them, ending lives in an eruption of fire and soil.

“I almost feel sorry for them,” Bishop said.

Queen stepped up next to him, firing down the hill with single shots, eliminating anything that moved. “Fuck ‘em. Play with chemical weapons, you get burned.”

Rook stopped firing, sensing the battle was pretty much done. They would need to hustle a few miles to the south and get to the sea, before reinforcements were called to the area. “I think their real mistake was shooting at you. Must be one of the quickest ways to get dead.”

“Aww, hon, you know how to flatter a girl,” Queen said with a grin.

“You know it,” Rook said and turned to help Bishop pack up the Balkan and their supplies.

“Knight, where are you?” Queen asked.

“I’m already on the other side of you guys. I’ll try to provide cover as you make for the boat.”

“Copy that. We’re moving.” With that, Queen turned and began to run for the shore. Rook hefted a supply pack and followed her. Bishop collapsed the tripod, and lifted the still warm barrel of the Balkan over his shoulder, then followed them at a jog.

“Queen, the jet will be providing your distraction in twenty minutes. You better hustle.” Deep Blue was referring to a stolen Chinese jet they had acquired that would be firing rockets five miles east of them. With the chemical weapons facility so close to the Chinese border, the plan had always been to implicate the Chinese in the attack, and to focus the North Korean forces toward the border, while the team slipped out to sea on a Zodiac inflatable, to rendezvous with their submarine they’d dubbed the Kraken. Once safely out in international waters, the sub would surface and the team would be collected with a vertical take off and landing (VTOL) troop transport, the team had rechristened Crescent II. The plane would take them back to New Hampshire at supersonic speeds, while the submarine would move on to the next hotspot.

“Copy. Twenty minutes.” As she said it, a small group of soldiers came up over the rise in front of her. “Better make that twenty-five.”

SIX

King stretched his lower back as he stood in the immigration line next to his sister. He was still getting used to the idea after all these months that he had another sister. He had grown up with his American sister, Julie, who had joined the service and died in a plane crash. But after he discovered that his parents had led double lives as Russian spies, he had met Asya, a sister he never knew. She had been raised in Russia, but had been aware of him.

His emotions were mixed about Asya. She was wonderful, and he was learning to love her as a sister, but she also brought up painful memories for him over the death of Julie, and the betrayal he felt over his parents’ deception. Each time he thought he had learned all there was to know about Peter and Lynn Machtchenko, the more they felt like strangers. But through all his feelings of hurt over their keeping secrets from him, his thoughts quickly came back to the fact that they were being held by Alexander Diotrephes. The circular train of thoughts, from Asya to Julie, to their parents, and back to Alexander, made it easy for King to keep his mind off his bizarre family tree and on business. Asya, with equal parts determination and typical Russian stoicism, seemed fine with that nature to their relationship. She had been thrilled when he had told her of his engagement to Sara, but within minutes, she was back to business, discussing this latest lead with him.

After a Maltese official in uniform, who looked no older than seventeen, stamped their passports, King turned to Asya and handed her a thick wad of US hundred dollar bills. “Why don’t you get us some Euros, and I’ll go talk to the guy at the information desk.”

She took the money without a word and strode over to an HSBC bank counter.

King walked toward the front of the airport arrivals area. He had no baggage to collect, just the small carry-on North Face duffel bag he carried. Near the front of the hall, he found the circular information counter, with one man seated behind it. The man had a square jaw and a hard look to him. King pegged the man as British immediately, even before he spoke.

“Can I help you, sir?”

King approached the counter. No other passengers were in the area, most still back collecting their bags from the conveyor-belt carousels.

“I was wondering if you could tell me how many tourists Malta gets in a year,” King said with a grin.

“One point two million a year,” the man replied immediately.

“I was hoping for something closer to five,” King replied, sounding disappointed.

The man stood and slid a small cardboard box across the counter toward King, on top of which he placed a tourist map. As he pointed to the map, he said, “I think you’ll find nine is a better number.”

King thanked the man, took the box and the map, and turned to walk toward Asya, who was just returning from the exchange counter.

“I have money,” she told him.

“I have something better. Let’s go get a car.”

They quickly arranged for a rental car, dissuading the attendant of his notion that they would need a driver. Once they reached the privacy of their rental car, King opened the box, and removed two MP-443 Grach pistols. He recognized these as the modern Russian 9mm sidearm. They were more commonly called Yarygins. He handed one to Asya, and she quickly chambered a round from the seventeen in the magazine. He did the same. Then he chuckled.

“What is funny?” Asya asked him.

“You know this weapon?”

“Yes, Pistolet Yarygina. Why is this funny?”

“Also called a Grach. Or Rook. It’s Deep Blue’s way of making a joke about how we are on this wild goose chase for our parents and not out helping the team.” He started the engine of the gray Mercedes sedan. The car barely made a noise.

“Blue is…a complicated man.” Asya turned away from him slightly as she spoke, but King saw her cheeks flush. Realization dawned on him.

“Oh my God, you have the hots for him,” he laughed.

“I do not have hots,” she said, still facing the window.

King laughed harder as he brought the sedan out into traffic on the main road, passing a McDonald’s. They would need to drive about five miles to get across the main island of Malta, to reach the capital, Valletta. He opened the windows on both sides of the car, letting the warm Mediterranean air wash over them. He was looking forward to getting to the coast, so he could see the brilliant blue hues of the sea, which had looked so stunning from the air.

The traffic was thick, but they made it to Valletta in good time. After a twenty minute search, King found a place to park the car. They walked along Republic Street to the plaza in front of the library, which was packed with tourists having lunch at the many umbrella-shaded tables. King wore his signature outfit: jeans and a simple black t-shirt with the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, showing his back to the audience, and holding a microphone in his hand. King guessed he now had close to a hundred different Elvis t-shirts. It was the only thing he collected, besides scars. Tucked under the shirt, in the waistband of his jeans, he carried the Yarygin.

Asya walked next to him, her long dark hair up in a ponytail. She wore a light blue blouse and a tight black pair of jeans. King didn’t know where she carried her gun, but he knew she had it on her somewhere. Maybe in the small purse-like backpack she wore.

The white umbrellas over the tables all read Café Cordina on the flaps, and the chairs were a strange mix of plastic patio furniture and woven wicker backs. A long aisle had been left down the center of the plaza, leading to the statue of Queen Victoria in front of the library’s doors. Currently, the statue’s head was mobbed with about five white and gray pigeons, all jostling each other for the best perch on the Queen’s noggin. Above it all, high on the roof of the library building, the Maltese red and white flag flapped loudly against its flag pole.

Above the doorframe, the word BIBLIOTHECA was carved and inlaid with gold. King also noted a ridiculous number of CCTV cameras clustered over the arch, but most pointed outward toward the crowd in the plaza.

“Ten cameras is excessive,” Asya stated, and once again, King was startled to find how similar he was to this woman that had grown up on the other side of the world from him.

They passed through the stone columns and in through the library’s main entrance. King’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the lower light. The floor was a zigzagging pattern of green and white marble. He spotted what he was looking for as soon as he entered the room.

Asya looked at the long tables and the walls lined with wooden bookshelves. The main chamber was a huge rectangular room, running to their left and right, the length of the building. Although several windows allowed light to pour into the space, he and Asya both had pink spots in their vision from having been outside in the brighter sunshine.

“Where should we begin?” Asya asked.

King pointed down to the floor, just inside the door, where the green and white marble had been laid in the H symbol of the Herculean Society.

“I’m going to say we should look for stairs to a basement.”

SEVEN

Tom Duncan stood by the open hangar door, as he always did when the team returned from a mission. He would be present to greet them unless there was a dire situation somewhere that required him to be in operations, where his computers and a connection to the world waited for him. He knew that King and Asya would have only just touched down in Malta, so as the morning sun streamed in the massive hangar door, he smiled warmly for the returning field team.

They came roaring up in a black Land Rover, driven by the team’s new head of security, Quinton Saunders. Saunders was yet another steal from the 10th Mountain group at Fort Drum. Duncan had sent the man to collect the team from Laconia airport, where their transport plane would slip in and then be hidden away in a private hangar. Although the vehicle had VTOL capabilities, there was nowhere near the Endgame Headquarters, which was built in sections under several mountains, to keep the plane. The hangar in which Duncan stood normally housed two Black Hawk helicopters — both of which were being upgraded at Fort Devens, down in Massachusetts.

Rook was the first to emerge from the vehicle, and Duncan was surprised to see the month-long growth of blonde beard on the man’s face. Combined with Rook’s bulk, the overall effect made him look like a wild mountain man.

“Rook, good to see you. If that really is you past all that hair,” Duncan said.

“It’s coming off today. I’ll be glad to have a proper shave.”

Bishop, Queen, Knight and Saunders, the new callsign: White Zero, all stepped out of the vehicle, and onto the concrete floor of the wide hangar.

“You could have shaved in the field, like I did,” Bishop said.

“I’m just wondering how come we never saw Knight shave,” Rook replied.

“I’m Korean. Our hair is trained to grow only where we want it to.” Knight smiled, then headed off toward the far end of the hangar.

“Queen, anything you want to tell me?” Duncan asked.

“We were lucky. A small patrol stumbled up on us, just as Knight was moving in to take his look. He’ll tell you all about the interior from the look he got, but the intel was righteous. Bishop took it down, and we got the hell out of there. Better intel would have made a month-long stakeout an afternoon takedown.” She shook her blonde hair out of a ponytail, and a long swath of it fell across the branded scar she bore on her forehead, covering it.

“Sorry about that. Sometimes we have to go on what we have. I’m glad it turned out alright.” Duncan replied. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You were wounded?”

“A scratch,” Queen dismissed it. “How are the North Koreans taking it?”

They turned to walk toward the far end of the hangar as they talked. Bishop and Rook had gone on ahead, and Saunders had taken the Rover back out to handle another matter.

“As you might expect. Saber-rattling at both China and Russia, because they don’t know who did it. They’ll turn their venom on us by tomorrow, whether they have any inkling it was us or not. They always do. They’ll threaten to nuke us, and the UN will level more sanctions at them, and it’ll blow over. But there will be one less chemical plant in their hands.”

“And how long will it take them to build another one?”

Duncan sighed. “Estimates are one month.”

“That’s not a good ratio. One month to take them down and one month to build them?”

“I know. Some days I feel like we need ten Chess Teams.”

A shrill alarm rang out throughout the base, with a red light circulating on the hangar ceiling. The steel door to the hangar began to close on its hydraulic pumps. Five soldiers wearing woodland-camouflage battle dress uniforms (BDUs) raced past Duncan and Queen toward the guard shack on the side of the main hangar door.

“What’s this now?” Queen asked.

Duncan touched a Bluetooth earpiece. “White Zero, what’s going down?”

“Sir, we have footage of three intruders on the perimeter of the base. Just down the road from Central. We’re looking for them now. Teams are reporting in from Labs and the Dock, but it looks like it was just the three guys.” White Zero sounded out of breath.

The base was a sprawling underground affair in three sections. On a map, the three main sections of the facility formed a capital letter A. High speed trains, hidden underground, connected each section of the appropriated base. This section was designated Central, and it contained the hangar, the computer rooms and surveillance equipment that Duncan would use to orchestrate Chess Team field operations and a variety of smaller labs and offices. Central sat at the top point of the letter A. The lower left of the A was a section designated Labs, because it mostly contained those. That was the section of the base the team had first encountered when the whole base belonged to the megalomaniac Richard Ridley. Finally, the lower right leg of the A-shape was the Dock, because the team kept a captured submarine there — the same Russian Typhoon class the team had used to escape North Korea. The sub reached the New Hampshire sea coast through a series of massive natural flooded tunnels and caverns.

The base had initially caused Duncan no end of headaches, because he first needed to get the Army to help clear it of chemical and biological weapons. After Chess Team had begun to move in, they had fought off an incursion of hostile forces and mutated creatures, while Duncan had been trapped inside and his security forces had been trapped outside. Since then, he had been continually beefing up security. Now three men had just sauntered up to the front door of his top-secret base. Duncan wasn’t happy.

Queen reached over to a nearby desk and picked up a radio earpiece. She placed it in her ear and listened in on the conversation.

“Zero, who are these guys?” Duncan asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

“No idea, sir,” came the reply. “But, they looked pretty weird.”

“Define weird.” Deep Blue was racing for the main computer operations room, and Queen was at his side, her firearm out. Once in his chair, Deep Blue could use the vast security systems as his disposal to find the intruders faster than White Zero could on foot.

“They look the same. Three guys in white business suits,” came White Zero’s reply.

Queen and Duncan exchanged glances as they reached the door to the central computer lab.

“They all have bald heads too. In the footage I’m seeing, they look like triplets.” White Zero’s voice sounded confused.

Deep Blue opened the door and then stopped dead. The room was mostly dark, but the lights had been on when he left. Queen read his body language and had her pistol up in front of her. She stepped in front of Deep Blue, motioning for him to remain shielded at the side of the doorway. Unarmed, he complied.

Queen began to enter the mostly darkened room. There was one recessed light in the ceiling, dimly lit, and shining down on the central computer chair in the room. A tall man with a bald head sat in the chair. He wore a fine white linen suit, and a huge shit-eating grin on his face.

“Richard Ridley,” Queen said, her gun trained on the maniac’s face.

“Not quite who you were expecting, eh, Ms. Baker?” The man’s grin grew wider. Two men stepped out of the shadows behind the chair to stand on either side of Ridley. Each man looked exactly like the other.

They were all the same man.

They were all Richard Ridley.

EIGHT

King was ready to give up. The dreary basement of the library held several hundred cardboard boxes of books, and rows and rows of dusty metal shelving. He felt like he was looking through a haystack and wasn’t even sure he was after a needle.

“There must be something,” Asya said. He could tell she was losing her patience too.

They had been in the basement for over an hour, looking at the boxes, the walls, the ceiling and the floor, for any sign that the Herculean Society had been here, or that they had at least stored something here. But short of going through all the boxes, King had no idea what his next move was.

“Should we open boxes? That assistant librarian might be back at any moment. If she’s looking for something further from the stairs next time, we will have nowhere to hide.” As usual, Asya was thinking what he was thinking.

“It won’t be in the boxes. It’ll be something more secretive, and it’ll probably be marked in some way, like the floor upstairs—” King stopped and he squinted, thinking hard about the layout of the building, as he had viewed it since he entered.

“You only squinch your nose like that when you have idea,” Asya told him.

King turned to her and smiled. “Squinch?”

“I am trying to sound more American.”

“Let’s go back upstairs. I might have an idea.”

Asya followed King up a spiral metal staircase to the main lobby of the library. They slipped quietly through the door and wandered back into the larger part of the hall, as casually as if they were just returning from the restroom.

King scanned the long hall, then turned his eyes up to the second story balcony that ran around the entire room. There were more shelves up there, and several small windows that let golden sunlight stream into the echoing chamber. Asya watched him look, then turned her own eyes up. She pointed to the spot on the balcony directly above the front door — and above the Herculean Society symbol on the floor.

“Was up, not down,” she said.

“Yep. Up,” King moved to another circular staircase. This one was in the corner of the large hall, and the ironwork along the railing was far more ornate than on the stairs to the basement, with small sections painted in gold leaf.

At the top, they navigated past the occasional book browser, along the carpeted floor of the balcony to the spot above the main hall’s doors. King glanced around the space. It was a small reading nook with a chair and a low table. Nothing fancy. He leaned over the balcony’s rail and looked down at the H on the floor below. Then he looked both ways along the balcony. No one was on this side of the second floor. He quickly turned and started searching every inch of the wall behind him, sliding the chair aside, and looking behind the table. Asya casually leaned on the rail watching him. Finally he stood straight and faced the wall, scratching his head.

“I don’t see it,” King said.

Standing slightly behind him, close to the rail, Asya swept her hand up and smacked King in the back of his head. He whipped around and looked at her, more in irritation than pain.

“Use your eyes,” she said. Then she pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “That way.”

King looked across the space to the railing on the other side of the library’s second floor. An identical reading nook mirrored the one in which he stood, with one major difference. On the far wall, behind the chair, and at head level for anyone standing in King’s position, was yet another small stylized H symbol, this time carved into the wooden surface of the wall molding.

King mentally kicked himself. He had stood here first and looked down at the symbol on the floor, and looked sideways down both lengths of the balcony, but he hadn’t bothered to look across the beautiful library and seen what was right in front of him.

“I’m starting to be glad we didn’t grow up together,” he grumbled, then started to walk the perimeter of the balcony.

Asya chuckled softly and walked after him. Once on the other side, the first thing King did was look back at the first nook — just in case. Then he zeroed in on the wooden molding on the wall. There was a nearly imperceptible groove around the circular part of the symbol. King grasped the uprights of the stylized H with his fingers and twisted. The entire symbol slid clockwise with a smooth wood against wood scuffing noise. King glanced down the balcony and saw only one other patron on the second floor with them.

“Go,” Asya said.

King twisted the H the remainder of the distance until he had spun the symbol a full 180 degrees. A soft thunk sounded, and the wooden wall swung back on invisible hinges, revealing a tiny door in the wall behind the chair. Asya slid the chair aside, and King stepped up to the door. It was just slightly more than a foot in width, and only about four feet tall. He had to put his head in first, and then slip in sideways.

Once inside, he was in complete darkness. He reached back on the inner wall behind him as Asya slipped into the doorway, pulling the chair back to its original position as she came. King’s fingers brushed across a plastic panel, and he flicked the light switch. A long row of ceiling-mounted fluorescent bulbs illuminated the room. It was a narrow brick passageway, the walls having long ago been painted a shade of white, but the paint was peeling and crumbling now. Asya pulled the door nearly to the closed position and examined the rear of it for a similar handle. She found an identical one in wooden trim that had been painted the same shade of off-white as the corridor, but the handle was smudged from years of dirty fingers. They wouldn’t be locked in. Asya pushed the door gently until it clicked in place.

King pulled his Yarygin and walked cautiously to the end of the tunnel. He noticed the floor declined a bit, but certainly not enough to take them to ground level. Along the way, he checked every inch of the ceiling, wary of traps. Although Alexander and his Herculean Society specialized in protecting — and in some cases obscuring — antiquity, he knew the man was not above using cutting edge technology to do so. King was expecting security traps or, at the very least, CCTV cameras. Instead, he found only the painted brick tunnel.

After about seventy feet, the tunnel ended at a T-intersection. King checked for cameras. Still surprised to find none, he looked in both directions. Fluorescents ran the length of the cross tunnel. At one end was what appeared to be a small room with dark gray metal file cabinets. The other end of the tunnel was in darkness. King looked into the gloom for a long moment.

Then he turned and walked toward the room with the file cabinets. Asya followed, checking behind her as she walked, her own Yarygin in hand.

The room was ten foot square, and as with the tunnel, King found no sign of cameras. The floor was rough, unfinished concrete. The room had no furniture, only seven large black file cabinets. At a quick glance, King could tell they were all unlocked.

“Why is there no security?” Asya asked.

“Uh-huh,” King said, moving toward the cabinet in the middle of the room.

“Why that one?”

“Gotta start somewhere. M. Roughly in the middle of the alphabet.” King smiled at her. “Figured I’d see what he had on Manifold. Be ready for shit to go haywire.”

King grasped the handle of the top drawer and gently pulled, just a half an inch. He checked for tripwires inside the drawer, but he found only hanging green folders. He pulled the drawer out further and saw that the files were all for names starting with the letter L. He didn’t recognize most of the names. The few he did recognize seemed innocuous: Labor Smart, Inc., Labwire, Lepenica, Lico. He slid the drawer closed and repeated the safety check on the next drawer. It was the M drawer. Close to the front, he found what he was looking for. Manifold Genetics.

He pulled the thick folder out and laid it gently on top of the cabinet. He soon saw the documents weren’t going to be much use to him. Most of the text was in Greek. What little was in English, was mostly what he knew already. Manifold Genetics was a biotech and genetic engineering firm, owned by the madman Richard Ridley. King and Chess Team had gone against the company and stopped them when they had discovered the head of the Lernaean Hydra buried in the sands of Nazca, Peru. Ridley had been cooking up designer soldiers, and Chess Team had put an end to it, appropriating one of Ridley’s labs in New Hampshire, and destroying two more in South America and on an island in the Atlantic. The file had US news clippings from the attack on Fort Bragg, when Ridley had reared his head again. But with Alexander’s help that time, Ridley had been shut down.

There were what appeared to be telephone transcripts — but in Greek — and photocopies of ownership documents, scientific formulas and all manner of material that King suspected would have been incredibly useful for the team when they had needed to stop Ridley. The intelligence would be invaluable, once they got it all translated. He was about to close the file and slip it into his shirt when the corner of a map slid out from under the stack of documents. King pinched the tip of it with his fingers and slid it out. The map showed the world, with five locations marked in black Greek letters. Although King wasn’t fluent in Greek, he and the rest of Chess Team had all spent the last few years studying up on ancient mythology, archeology, history and ancient languages. He was familiar with the Greek alphabet, even though he couldn’t read full words. And in this case, the meaning of these letters was obvious. In New Hampshire, the Greek letter Alpha denoted the former Manifold installation that Endgame now called their headquarters. In South America, King saw the letter Beta was crossed out with a circle and a slash mark in red permanent pen. Gamma, on Tristan da Cunha in the Atlantic Ocean was likewise marked as finished. In the Ukraine, King saw the letter for Delta was also crossed out.

King tapped it with his finger and said, “Queen dealt with this facility when she was looking for Rook.”

“And this one?” Asya asked, pointing to the fifth black Greek letter.

It was the symbol for Omega, and over the top of it, the person with the red pen had drawn the Herculean Society symbol. Under that, the word Carthage had been written in a smooth cursive script.

King heard a low guttural growl coming from the corridor behind them, in the dark.

“That’s where we’re going if we get out of here alive.”

A second growl came out of the dark at the end of the tunnel, and then the fluorescent bulbs at the far end went out. Then the next set went dark. King and Asya moved to either side of the open doorway, their weapons trained on the end of the tunnel as the darkness advanced toward them.

NINE

“Clones,” Queen said with disgust.

She stood in the room, with three perfectly identical copies of Richard Ridley seated before her. The original Ridley was a robustly tall man, with a gleaming bald head and a menacing smile. She recalled the man’s likeness. As she looked at the three seated men, she could detect nothing to indicate she wasn’t looking at three of him. They were perfect replicas of Ridley in every way.

The three men sat in metal chairs that had been hastily bolted to the floor. Their hands were cuffed to the backs of the chairs with industrial-strength plastic zip ties and metal handcuffs. Bishop, Knight and Rook stood behind Queen, each armed and suited up for battle, their weapons trained on the triplets. To the side of the room, another five armed Endgame soldiers, wearing battle armor, held M-16s trained on the seated duplicates.

“We prefer ‘divinely created persons,’ actually,” said the Ridley seated in the middle. “My name is Seth.”

“I’d prefer to put my boot up your—” Rook spoke up.

“Rook,” an electronically modulated voice came over the black speakers tucked up into the corners of the interrogation room. “That’s no way to treat our guests.”

Seth smiled. “Ah, the mysterious Deep Blue, at last. Or maybe I should be calling you the Man of the — well, no, you’re not the Man of the Hour anymore. What do they call former presidents, Mr. Duncan?”

“Not sure what you’re talking about. You can call me Deep Blue for now,” came the electronic response.

Queen was stunned. Blue’s identity as former President of the United States, Tom Duncan, was a closely guarded secret, and on the few times the man had appeared in public as Deep Blue, he had worn a tactical battle suit with a helmet and a tinted faceplate. He had been out of sight in the hallway when they had discovered the Ridleys in Ops, and Blue’s own checks of the computer system had revealed that although they had entered the room, they had not accessed any of the cameras in the base. There was no way they could have seen Deep Blue’s face. The fact that Ridley — Seth — had Deep Blue’s operational callsign, and that he even knew of Deep Blue’s existence, was bad enough. That they knew his true identity meant that somewhere, someone else knew it too, and the original Richard Ridley had gotten his hands on the information somehow. Queen imagined Blue’s mind was reeling right now, but the electronically altered voice remained flat.

“You haven’t introduced your companions, Seth.”

“Quite right. My brothers Enos and Jared were not created quite as well as I was. Jared cannot speak, and Enos is mostly deaf.”

Queen tried to discern some distinguishing mark so she could keep the three clones straight, but they were all even wearing the same white linen suit.

Deep Blue’s voice came over the speakers again. “So we are to understand that the three of you were created by Richard Ridley — the original — when he briefly had access to the mother tongue? When he was trying to enslave the world? Why would he do that?”

Seth smiled again. “Which? Why would our Creator make us or why would He try to enslave humanity?”

“Can I shoot him now? Dumb and Dumber can answer the questions. This one is raising my hackles.” Rook stepped forward, leveling a.50 caliber Magnum Desert Eagle at Seth’s face.

“Stand down, Rook,” Deep Blue said. “We might need all three of them alive.”

“These guys aren’t even really alive,” Rook said. “They’re just animated heaps of clay. Shooting them in the head would be like shooting a rock, only more fun.”

“Agreed,” Deep Blue replied. “But let’s see what they have to say for themselves.”

Rook stepped back.

Seth smiled at the reprieve.

“But if I don’t like what I hear in response to my next question, you can start cutting off his fingers.”

Rook smiled. “Then I’m going to make a Kmart run. Pick up a Play-Doh Sweet Shoppe. Make me some Ridley-clone ice cream cones.”

The smile vanished from Seth’s face. Queen smiled softly, looking at Rook. Then she turned back to Seth. She knew the question Deep Blue would ask, and she wanted the answer just as badly as everyone else.

“Is Richard Ridley alive?” Deep Blue asked.

“We wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Seth said.

“Where is he?”

When the voice came through the speakers, even though Queen knew the modulator both disguised Deep Blue’s voice and removed any traces of emotion, she still thought the question sounded stern.

Seth’s face darkened as he looked at the floor. “He is being held prisoner.”

“Where?” The volume of Deep Blue’s voice increased with his urgency. It was clear that he thought he’d have to fight for the answer to this question. The truth was less dramatic and deprived Rook of the pleasure of knocking out a few teeth.

“A former Manifold facility in North Africa.”

“Bullshit,” Queen spoke up. “He’s dead and buried.”

Seth looked up at her and sneered. “He is immortal. He could live forever with the mother tongue, even without His genetic enhancements.” Seth looked hard at her. “I know our Creator lives because we three are still alive.”

“Explain,” came Deep Blue’s voice over the speakers.

“If He were to die, the command He gave in the mother tongue, the command that granted my brothers and me life, would end. We would return to the inert elemental materials from which we were formed. As all things do in time. But we yet live. So you see, Richard Ridley lives, too.”

“Assuming we believe you, that Ridley is alive and being held prisoner, why are you here?” Deep Blue’s voice buzzed.

“That should be obvious,” Seth said. “We want you to liberate Him.”

Enos nodded vigorously on Seth’s right. Jared sat stone still, unsmiling.

“You have gotta be kidding me,” Rook said.

“I’d sooner put Willie Nelson’s greasy hair between my legs and light it on fire,” Queen joined in.

Seth grinned, finding humor in the visual. “Nevertheless, I suspect you will all aid us in this endeavor.”

Queen leaned forward, hands on her knees, all trace of humor gone. “Richard Ridley is a megalomaniac who raised and loosed an ancient horror on the world. He extinguished countless endangered languages by murdering their last remaining speakers. He brought chaos and hellfire to the world in the form of giant golems, and he personally attempted on more than one occasion to kill members of this team and our loved ones. Sometimes in very painful ways. If there is such a thing as the Devil, your creator is the closest I’ve ever seen to him. Why would we possibly want him free?”

Seth turned to face his two brothers, then turned back to face the members of Chess Team. All three brothers smiled. This time, the smile was wicked.

“I haven’t told you who holds Him prisoner, or why. As dangerous as you might believe our Creator to be, there is a man who is even more troubling. That man holds Ridley Prime prisoner. That man… He is a threat to every man, woman and child on this planet. That man’s megalomaniacal schemes for world domination make Ridley Prime’s ambitions appear miniscule by comparison.

“Why would we come here and ask Chess Team to help us liberate our Master? Because our Creator, Richard Ridley, is the only man alive who can save the world.”

TEN

King held his fire until the darkness moved. He fired two shots, then waited. Asya held her fire beside him. The booming of the gun inside the tight confines was excruciating, and they needed to conserve their limited ammunition. Plus, he didn’t know if bullets would even affect the things.

And they were things. He’d had enough experience with the unexplainable to recognize it when he saw it, or in this case, didn’t see it.

Only two fluorescent bulbs were still lit at King’s end of the connecting cross-tunnel. He briefly considered making a rush into the dark for the side tunnel, but dismissed the idea. He knew what waited for them in the dark.

“The Forgotten,” he said.

“What?” Asya shouted. They were both suffering from the hearing loss associated with him firing his weapon in these tight confines.

“The Forgotten,” he said louder.

“The wraith-like things that serve Hercules?” Asya asked. She’d been briefed on the team’s previous missions, their enemies, allies and all the strangeness they’d encountered over the years.

From the shadows in the hall in front of them, they heard a guttural growl, as if in affirmation.

“They don’t like light,” King said, his Yarygin still aimed down the hallway at the blackness. Of the two bulbs still lit along the ceiling, the second one was flickering. He hadn’t noticed it with all the others on before, but now with just the two, its erratic behavior was obvious. It flickered and strobed, tossing its light around the confined space of the white-washed hall. Then it extinguished. Only the lights in their room and the one tubular bulb just outside the doorway remained. The light extended to about ten feet past King’s outstretched arm and pistol, then met an unnatural wall of blackness, where it was absorbed.

As King watched, the dark wall shuffled forward, like a lumbering elephant. When it stopped moving, the wall of dark was only five feet past his extended arm. King pulled his arm back, but kept the pistol trained on the inky barrier, ready for what might emerge.

“Here,” Asya had reached into her purse and procured a small but powerful LED flashlight. King took it and shined the light into the blackness ahead of them. The darkness grunted back at them, in reply.

“Get the file,” King said.

Asya stepped back from the doorway, where King remained, and turned toward the still open file cabinet.

The darkness shrieked at them. Asya clapped her hands against her ears. As bad as the gunfire had been, this sound was immensely worse. When the noise abated, dying down to a clicking sound, King called to her.

“Leave it. We’re getting out of here.”

“How?” Asya asked as she joined him again at the door, her Yarygin pointed at the dark.

“Quickly,” then he raced into the darkness, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. As he moved, the last bulb in the hall extinguished, and the light behind them in the room blinked out. King’s flashlight was now the only source of light in the tunnel.

But the wall of darkness retreated from the powerful flashlight. Asya was at his heels. Just before the wall of black reached the point that would allow them to slip into the side tunnel, it stopped. And then snarled.

King understood. This was as far as the wraiths were prepared to back down. He had encountered the creatures before — in Rome, when he was looking for Alexander. Then the creatures had reacted similarly. They would flee in pain from bright light, but ultimately they would not shirk their duty. King hadn’t needed to actually kill one though. Alexander had called them off, the last time. King wasn’t even sure it was possible to kill them. Alexander had implied the creatures were early experiments of his, when he was looking for ways to use the Hydra’s blood for longevity. The man had said the wraiths were the inspiration for vampire legends. King could understand why after seeing them up close in Rome. They had hideous wrinkled gray skin. Some were missing facial features like noses and mouths entirely. Still, despite being scientific mishaps, they were each fiercely loyal to Alexander and his mysterious goals.

King took one single step forward and thrust the flashlight out. He needed to send a message to the Forgotten. He would not be dissuaded in his mission either. The tip of the flashlight touched the wall of shadow and a fine film of smoke rose up from the end of the light, filling the tunnel with a charred smell.

King heard Asya fire her weapon once behind him, but he couldn’t turn away from the wall. He knew if he did, the thing would be on him in a second.

“Pawn?” he asked.

“There is another behind us, but it stays back.”

“We’re in a standoff. Again.”

“What will we do?” she asked. King admired the lack of fear in his sister’s voice. She wasn’t worried at all in her abilities or in his. She was merely asking him about the plan.

“Be pushy,” King told her. Then he stepped into the field of blackness. The light sizzled harder. Then he felt a hand grasp his left wrist inside the wall of dark, pushing the flashlight up. With his right hand, King fired the Yarygin point blank into the blackness.

The hand still held his wrist and pushed his arm back. Then it moved forward and the field of supernatural darkness dissipated like smoke clearing in a strong wind. Only instead of being blown off to the side, the smoke retreated back down the length of the hallway. The hallway was suddenly revealed in the flashlight’s beam — the hallway, and the creature inside it.

A wraith stood before King.

The creature looked like a man in a tattered gray cloak. The skin not covered by the hood over its head was a dark charcoal. The eyes were sunken hollows. This one had a single vertical slit where its nose should have been. It had a lower jaw, but it looked fused to the skull, the flesh melted and scarred where the mouth should have been. Its taut skin clung to the muscles and skeletal structure, like the thing was malnourished.

The creature shoved his wrist hard and let out a clicking growl. King saw the bullet wounds in its chest, but the injuries did not lessen the creature’s strength or resolve. He struggled to force his left arm down, pointing the light at the creature again. It began to shake in his grasp. He fired two more shots at its chest, then moved to swing the arm up and point the gun at its head, but the Forgotten, with an amazing reserve of strength, forced the flashlight all the way up and back in one swift move.

When the beam of light hit King’s face, the wraith made a loud sharp bark noise. Then it let go of King’s arm.

King pulled his arm back to his chest and pointed the light at the wraith again, but it had leapt to the side of the wall and was retreating down the tunnel, following another looming by the door to the darkened room. Then a third wraith passed over his head, skittering along the ceiling of the tunnel, following the first two.

When the third creature reached the dim recesses of the room at the other end of the tunnel, the fluorescent lights all flicked back on again, suddenly filling the hallway with a brilliant glare. King shielded his eyes for a second, but he kept the Yarygin trained on the far end of the hall.

“What did you do?” Asya asked, coming up next to him.

“Nothing. I think we just got our first lucky break. Once it saw who I was, it retreated. Alexander must have told them he wanted me alive for some reason.”

“And me?”

“Let’s not stick around to find out.” King turned to move back to the file cabinet for the Manifold file, but he heard the guttural growling again from the end of the hall. He stopped and turned back to the hallway. Half the fluorescents had been shut off. He stood waiting, and as he did, the lights slowly turned back on, one by one. The message was clear.

“I think we’re being given safe passage out, but we don’t get to take anything.”

Asya gave a nod and slipped ahead, heading down the side hallway. King paused at the junction, staring into the darkness at the end, where the wraiths waited. He let the moment spin out, assuring them he was not afraid.

“Where is he?” he shouted at the darkened room.

He waited a full minute for a reply of some kind. When none came, he turned to leave.

But then he heard the distinctive tink of metal striking stone. He whipped his head back toward the dark room, and saw a small metal object come skipping along the rough concrete floor toward him. It wobbled to a stop just a few paces from where he stood. He took one long stride and bent down to pick it up. The cool metal in his hand told him what he held.

It was a coin. An ancient one.

King backed into the side corridor with Asya and made his way to the exit. He kept an eye out behind them, but the darkness no longer encroached. When they reached the door, King was prepared for absolute bedlam on the other side. They had fired several shots. The library and the plaza outside would be in an uproar.

“Get to the car as fast as you can,” then he swung the door opened and scooted the chair on the balcony aside.

The library was quiet. Business as usual. Patrons were down on the first floor, and an old man was in the stacks up here on the balcony, looking at them as they emerged from the wall. Asya shut the door behind her. The old man turned his attention back to a red leather-bound book in his hand.

King looked at Asya and she shrugged. She tucked her pistol into her purse. Taking his cue from her, King slipped his weapon into the waistband of his jeans, lifting his Elvis shirt over the grip. The gun was still warm against his skin, but not too hot.

They headed out of the library into the strong glare of the Mediterranean sunshine and strolled through the crowded plaza, toward the street.

Once away from people, Asya spoke up in a voice just shy of a shout. “Do you think secret passage was soundproofed?”

“Must have been,” King could tell he was shouting too. He hoped his hearing would improve before they got back to the airport.

“What did it throw?” Asya asked.

King held his palm out for her. She examined the small coin. It had rough edges, making it round only in the loosest sense of the word. On the face of the coin was a raised image of a woman, with a crescent moon over her head.

“An ugly woman?” Asya was not sure what she was seeing.

King laughed. “That’s supposed to be the head of a lion. This is a coin showing Tanit, a Punic goddess of fertility and war.”

“What does it mean?”

King’s face soured. “It means Alexander is in Carthage. Probably at the last Manifold facility. Omega.”

ELEVEN

Asya Machtchenko sat in the white Mercedes cargo van, watching her brother negotiate with an Arab. She was constantly amazed by him, despite the façade she presented of disapproving sister. She was really coming to like him.

King was talking with the man, and the exchange appeared to be friendly. He had told Asya that he would be getting some necessary supplies, but she suspected he was negotiating for some weapons. They had ditched the Yarygins in Valletta before leaving Malta. Traveling across borders with firearms had become practically impossible, but there were always plenty of weapons on the ground in any country. A booming secondhand trade had begun in most parts of the world, and covert military and spies always made purchasing side-arms their first step after clearing customs. Asya knew that in some parts of Russia, you could find the salesmen in the actual parking lot outside the airport. In this case, they had needed to drive into the surprisingly clean city of Tunis. Asya had not been to many locations in North Africa, although she and King had visited Egypt earlier in the year, following a lead. She found the wide streets and business-like approach of Tunis to be refreshing after the chaos of Cairo.

She watched as King, in yet another of his Elvis shirts — this one showing the aged and sweaty man with big square sunglasses on a red fabric — reached forward and shook the small Arab’s hand. Good, she thought. Almost done. The temperature in the van was fine with the air conditioning running, but she was anxious to get moving. She felt they were very close to finding their parents.

King was led to the side door of another van. The man slid the door open, slowly procured a few small packages and placed them on the floor of the van, stepping aside. King quickly examined the contents, nodding as he did, never keeping a package exposed for long. Then the man handed King what had to be a cloth-wrapped assault rifle. The weapons went into a nylon duffle bag over King’s shoulder. Then King passed the man a stack of US dollars. They shook hands again. King turned with his purchases and was walking away when the small Arab called him back.

This cannot be good.

King returned to the man, on guard. She could see it in his posture. She had no weapons if a fight broke out, but she placed her hand on the door handle anyway, prepared to leap out of the van and race to her brother’s assistance if necessary. The small Arab smiled and produced a tiny package from under his shirt. He handed it to King, and King laughed good-naturedly. Asya relaxed. King shook the small man’s hand again — far more vigorously this time. Then he came back to her van, smiling all the way.

King opened the rear door of the van and slid the nylon bag onto the floor, removing the rifle and laying it down next to the bag, still wrapped in its white cloth covering. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat, still smiling. Asya watched him the whole time.

Eventually he turned to her and saw the look on her face. “What?”

“What is so funny?” she asked.

“He said for being such a good customer, he wanted to give me a bonus gift.” King smiled and produced the small package she had seen the man hand over. King’s fingers removed the cloth, and Asya saw an olive drab WWII-era grenade, commonly known as a pineapple. She knew the weapon had been out of use since the 1960s.

“Bozhe moi, do you think that thing will even still work?”

King laughed. “Well, it looks like Vietnam era, so maybe.” The small dark thing had rust on the pin already. “We’re weaponed up. I got two Sigs and an AK. Now, where to?”

Asya showed King a small tourist map that highlighted the ruins of Carthage, and she pointed to one of the southerly sites labeled Tophet. “I think we start here. Your Tanit Goddess had connections to this place, or so the guide book says. If not this one, then we work our way up and check out all the ruins.”

King started the engine and they headed south.

Hours later, with the sun nearly going down, King was exhausted. They had visited each of the ancient sites, hoping to spot some indication of a hidden entrance to a former Manifold base, while also keeping an eye out for the Herculean Society symbol. But discovering Omega’s location was turning out to be far more difficult than finding the Valletta library’s secret file-room.

King wiped sweat off his forehead with a bandana. “As fascinating as Tunisia is, we haven’t made much ground.”

Asya sat next to him in the cab of their van, luxuriating in the air conditioning after being out in the heat all afternoon. She fanned a limp tourist map on herself and turned her head to the ceiling of the vehicle. “This is like Kyrgyzstan heat. I am melting. We have seen all of Carthage’s major sites.”

“Let me see that map,” King said, after taking a swig of an ice cold Coke he had bought from a nearby vendor. Asya handed him the map. It showed the archeological sites as orange shapes, and no other detail besides the roads. “This isn’t going to work. Can you bring up a satellite map on the laptop?”

Asya opened their rubber-coated magnesium alloy laptop, designed for rough treatment in the field. She had a small satellite antenna attached to the Ethernet port, which allowed them to access the vast array of computing power Deep Blue had back in New Hampshire, as well as a simple Internet connection from anywhere they could reach a passing satellite. Asya opened a satellite view of the ruins in Google Maps.

“You see, we are here,” she said.

“Zoom out a bit,” King said.

Asya’s finger slipped on the mouse’s scroll button, zooming the image out to where they could see the whole coastline of Tunisia. She apologized for going too far, then began zooming back in on the ruins, one click at a time.

“Wait,” King said, pointing. “What the hell is that?” His finger pointed to a huge rectangle, clearly visible, long before the other structures were.

Asya quickly re-centered the map on the rectangle, and zoomed all the way in.

“It is parking lot for the mosque.”

“The mosque?” King asked.

“You know the big one? We saw the tower, when looking at the ruins of the theater.” She sounded tired.

“Zoom out again a bit,” King said.

She did as he requested, then looked at him, still fanning herself with the useless tourist map.

“You cannot be thinking Ridley would get permission to build Omega inside a mosque. Not even Ridley had that kind of money,” Asya tapped the keyboard for a few seconds, searching for information. “The Malik ibn Anas mosque was built in 2003, and was originally called El Abidine. It holds 1000 worshippers and even has a radio station.”

“A radio station?”

“For broadcasting the call to prayer,” she told him.

“Ah. No. You’re right. Not even Ridley had that kind of clout. But I’m not thinking of the mosque. You said it was built in ’03?”

“Yes. But if not the mosque, then where?” she asked.

King smiled and put the van into drive.

“You are serious?”

“I’m telling you, this is where it will be.” King pointed at the lines and lines of parked cars. They had been sitting in the southwest corner of the immense parking lot, watching the worshippers arrive in droves for Maghrib, the evening prayer. The sun was mostly down on the horizon, as hundreds of men clad in a variety of dress had all jockeyed for parking spots and then quickly hurried into the massive white mosque across the Boulevard de l’Environnement. King had kept the engine running, chewing through petrol, so they could continue to stay cool.

“The parking lot? It’s insane. Look how full the lot is. How could Ridley and his people get in and out without being seen?” Asya asked.

King turned to her and grinned. “Easily, as long as he did it at any time of day except during the five times of prayer.”

Approximately twenty-five minutes after the last man had entered the mosque, the first of them began hurrying back to their vehicles. Then a swarm of humanity flooded from the structure and the parking lot was inundated with pedestrians and moving vehicles. King thought it vaguely resembled a swarm of fire ants around a hive. In twenty minutes more, the lot was nearly empty, and King marveled at the efficiency of the drivers.

They waited five more minutes and their van was the only vehicle in the gigantic darkening lot.

“That was amazing,” Asya said.

“Now to see if I was right.”

A few minutes later, he spotted a shadow darting from cover to cover in the little park on the far side of the empty lot.

“There,” King pointed, as the shadow shifted.

“A wraith, like in Malta?” Asya asked.

“Maybe.”

The shape darted behind white concrete, and then it was gone. King waited a minute, then drove the van across the parking lot with the headlights off. He parked on the north side of the lot, where they had seen the moving shape. To the left was a tiny park with landscaped trees and shrubs. Directly in front of them was a small white fountain. A tiled walkway stretched to the right, off the edge of the lot. Beyond that, was the crosswalk over the boulevard and the courtyard in front of the massive mosque. King looked at the building, seeing the bright white surface suddenly illuminated with spotlights, as the dusk deepened.

Then he turned back to the not-functioning fountain in front of them. He glanced down to the laptop, still open on Asya’s lap. He reached over and zoomed in on the satellite view of the fountain.

“This will be the entrance,” he said.

“I was thinking the same,” Asya closed the laptop, then reached into the nylon bag behind her seat and pulled out the two Sig Sauer pistols, handing one to King. She got out of the van and stood in the lot, looking at the fountain. King stepped out, slipped the grenade into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved the rifle from the back of the van. He slipped its strap over his head and shoulder. Although the lights illuminated the mosque at the end of the giant parking lot, the small park and fountain area were still dark. He reached in the van one more time for the LED flashlight.

“Should we check in with Deep Blue before going in?” Asya asked in a whisper.

“No need. He’ll know where we are within an hour, when a satellite passes. I have a micro-transmitter on me.”

“A micro-transmitter?” She eyed him up and down. “Where?”

He gave a lopsided grin. “Where no one would want to look.”

They made their way to the fountain. There wasn’t a drop of water inside.

“It is bone dry,” Asya said, stalking around the structure and looking for a lever of some kind.

King looked to the west into the trees of the small park. Then he understood.

“It was late.”

Asya looked at him for an explanation.

“The Forgotten. It was late getting back to the fountain. It was caught outside in the sun all day. It stayed in the shade of the park, probably hidden in a tree, or under one of those shrubs. As soon as the sun set, it retreated back to the fountain. This is the entrance.” King turned back to examine the stone fountain.

“I don’t see any symbols. Only abstract patterns,” Asya said.

“Of course,” King nodded. “It’s Islamic art. There won’t be any lettering or obvious symbols or shapes. Just geometric patterns. Plus, remember, this was Ridley’s place. The Society only took it over recently. There won’t be any obvious letter H.”

King lifted his leg and stepped into the empty basin of the concrete and marble fountain. As soon as he brought his full weight into the fountain, a loud crunching sound emanated from the stone. A portion of the floor slid away, revealing the upper rungs of a ladder.

“Isn’t that a risky design? Anyone could have found it.” Asya stepped into the fountain with King, as he began his descent into the darkness.

“No one ever takes the time to come here. You saw how quickly people hurried into the mosque, and then how quickly they bailed after prayer. Plus the fountain is empty. No one would give it a second glance — and they would never think to step inside of it.”

“A child—” Asya started.

“—is probably not heavy enough to trigger the hatch,” King finished.

Asya grunted in agreement.

The ladder descended just ten feet. King stepped off and to the side, allowing Asya to come down. His footsteps echoed telling him he was in a huge underground space. He left the flashlight off, not wanting to give away their position any more than the twilit sky would. He also wanted his night vision to adjust.

When Asya was off the ladder, the concrete opening slowly slid closed above them, entombing them in absolute darkness. A scratching noise tickled his ears. Then a small skitter. And a scrape. There were Forgotten here. King pulled up his Sig, prepared to keep the Forgotten at bay.

When he flicked on the LED flashlight, his hopes were suddenly dashed.

There were Forgotten here.

Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. They were in some kind of huge underground space and the Forgotten were all clustered in the dark, clinging to the walls, and hanging from the ceiling above them. When the harsh glare of the LED illuminated the space, they shrieked as one, with a rising tone like an alarm.

From directly behind him, King heard his sister’s thick Russian accent.

“Is never easy with you, is it?”

TWELVE

“Make no mistake,” Seth said, “the man you call Alexander Diotrephes is the historical Hercules. If he even is a man. But one way or the other, he has probably been alive for over 2500 years. We don’t know what he’s planning to do with the technology he’s gathered, but if he were to combine the dimensional technology you acquired and lost last year, with the other…items he has collected? Well, let’s just say he could blow a hole in the side of this planet that would leave the Earth looking like a crescent moon.”

“Not possible,” Deep Blue’s electronic voice came over the speakers in the room. “How would he even power such a weapon?”

The three Ridleys smiled at Queen and the others. “In the last few years, your Chess Team witnessed our Creator revive the Hydra. You saw a virus that could stop hearts. You discovered an entire city of Neanderthals — still alive — living under a mountain in the jungles of Vietnam. You have seen the power of the mother tongue, the very language of God. King discovered the Elephant Graveyard in Ethiopia, and you…” Seth pointed to Queen, “…you escaped an amusement-park deathtrap and fought creatures that could only be described as…what? Werewolves? How can you — how can any of you — question anything at this point?”

The room fell silent for a moment. The litany of strange events they’d all survived conjured images of monsters, tortures and scars, some of which would never fade.

“As much as I hate to say it,” Knight spoke up from the corner of the room, “he has a point. Let’s not forget that hydra-dragon thing I fought in China too. At this point, I don’t think we can dismiss any possibility, no matter how unlikely it seems. Or how untrue we want it to be.”

“Alexander has been a fair-weather friend,” Bishop added from behind Queen. He had lowered his weapon, but his eyes remained trained on the three Ridley clones.

Seth looked up at the black speaker in the corner of the room. “Your people saw the tremendous power possibilities of the Bluelight project Graham Brown was working on. Alexander—Hercules—has that technology.”

Queen recalled the reports King had given of a man named Graham Brown who might have been masquerading as a worldwide computer network known as Brainstorm. The Bluelight project was a power system that operated on the principle of firing proton beams into a magnetic field, resulting in a plasma storm above the atmosphere, from which energy could be harvested. But the system was wildly unstable, and King had shut it down…permanently. Or so they had thought.

“Then there’s the matter of the miniature black hole,” Seth said, his face suddenly grim.

“The what?” Queen asked, startled. This was getting bad.

Deep Blue’s modulated voice answered. “He’s referring to the incident at the Louvre, two years ago. King stopped a black hole from eating Paris. Alexander was present. As far as we knew, all signs of the phenomenon were gone at the end of the incident.”

Seth grinned. “Review the security camera footage. A few of the cameras in the museum were powered by a battery backup. Even though the city was struck by a blackout and an earthquake, some of the cameras kept recording. Hercules removed a small token, when King wasn’t looking. Placed it in his pocket.”

“You don’t mean to suggest that an entire black hole was contained in something small enough to fit in a man’s pocket?” Deep Blue’s modulated voice did not intone the sarcasm, but Queen felt it would be present on his end of the conversation.

“The video shows him struggling to lift the object. A stone the size of a golf ball. How heavy do you suppose it must have been if the legendary Hercules nearly couldn’t budge it?”

Silence filled the room. Rook shuffled along the side wall, his weapon still pointed at the Ridleys. Queen could not see Bishop or Knight behind her, but she knew they would remain vigilant. The other Endgame soldiers kept their weapons trained on the seated figures.

Queen lowered her pistol and stepped closer to Seth. She squatted, placing her eyes level with Seth’s face.

“Could a miniature black hole be used to power that dimensional technology from Norway? To bring those things from the other side back here to Earth?”

“That dimension was theoretically only one dimension of a possibly infinite number. There could be far worse things out there. And yes, the energy contained in a black hole — no matter its size — could power anything. Theoretically, of course. No one has ever done it before…that we know of.”

Deep Blue’s voice buzzed into the room again, “What makes you think Richard Ridley can help?”

“With the mother tongue, the Creator is capable of anything. We three do not possess the mother tongue. But He does. He could simply unmake Hercules. He could stop the threat of the black hole and the dimensional technology all at once.”

“Or,” Deep Blue’s voice interrupted, “he might try to claim that technology for himself.”

Seth nodded grimly. “But, you are missing the point entirely.”

Queen raised a questioning eyebrow. She tried putting herself in Seth’s — or Richard Ridley’s — mental state, to guess what he meant, but she couldn’t see his side of things.

“Oh my God,” Deep Blue said through the speakers, after a minute.

“Yes. Exactly,” Seth smiled. “Do you really want a man that has the biological ability of regeneration, some kind of unnatural immortality, immense strength, unlimited power and the technology to tear holes between dimensions to suddenly acquire and possess the all-powerful language of God, as well?”

The moment spun out, with no one speaking.

Queen found herself looking at the black speaker up in the corner of the room, waiting for Deep Blue’s reply. When the words came, she knew there would have been resignation behind them, if she had heard the man in person. But she also knew it was the only possible response.

“Let’s make a deal.”

THIRTEEN

The space opened before King like an immense underground parking garage, with thick concrete support columns equally spaced and receding into the unlit portion of the echoing space. King’s LED light cast an arc of illumination fifty feet into the throng of shifting wraiths. It was enough.

Well, this sucks, he thought. He guessed the space likely stretched most of the length and breadth of the parking lot above and beyond. It seemed equally likely that it was filled with Wraiths.

But then he noticed something odd. The Forgotten were not attacking him and Asya. They were hissing and screeching, scampering along the ceiling of the space and on the wall behind him — even on the ladder, but they were keeping their distance.

King focused on the wraith closest to him. It was like the others — sickly gray skin, deformed facial features and a long tattered cloak. But it also held a look of curiosity. King watched as it appraised him, tilting its hairless head first one way, and then the other.

“Why do they not attack?” Asya whispered.

“Not sure,” King replied. As King spoke, the wraith closest to him stepped forward and hissed louder. Moving slowly, it brought its face just inches from King’s. Then it repeated the strange head movements, swaying as it turned its skull. A cobra dancing to an Indian snake charmer’s flute.

King moved his forehead closer, in the same manner, and now his face was an inch from the wraith’s. It hissed louder, but he sensed the hiss might be out of something else…appreciation or even submission maybe, but not a threat.

King took a chance.

“My name is Jack Sigler,” he shouted. “You might know me as King.” He moved the LED flashlight up as he spoke, as he had done in Malta, illuminating his face for the creatures to see his features. The Forgotten’s yellow reflective pupils dilated from the light, as its face elongated, and its eyes opened wider — as if in shock. Or maybe just really bad eyesight, King thought.

The creature stepped back from King and emitted a loud rising shriek that sounded like a referee tweeting on a whistle. All of the wraiths in the giant space were suddenly silent. The echoing chamber fell quiet except for the scratching noise of clawed hands and feet clinging to the walls and concrete support columns. Their tattered cloaks fluttered as they moved, but the creatures had stopped their incessant noise. To King’s relief, the creatures remained docile.

“Step closer to me, Asya,” he said quietly. He felt her brush up against his back. “Now walk with me, very slowly.”

King took a step forward into the crowd of wraiths.

Asya shuffled forward with him. He took another step, and the wraiths ahead of them parted to reveal the white concrete floor. King began to walk forward at a slow pace, with Asya right behind him. A wraith from the left came close, and he turned to look at it, shining the LED up, so his face would be lit in the harsh white glow.

“King!” he told it, and the creature receded into the crowd.

“Why are they letting us pass?” Asya asked, keeping one hand on his arm.

“The important thing is they are. The question is, for how long? Remember in Malta, they wouldn’t let us take the file. For some reason, I’m off limits as long as I play by Alexander’s rules.”

As King and Asya moved forward, the wraiths filled in the space behind them, never allowing them more than a circle of twenty feet in diameter.

“No chance of retreat,” Asya said, looking behind them. “They are following.”

“That’s fine,” King said, gaining confidence. “I am King!” He shouted, and the crowd of Forgotten flinched back, widening the circle of clear floor around King and Asya.

They had covered perhaps three hundred feet from the ladder, with the wraiths curiously clustering around. Occasionally one would dart closer, and King would raise the flashlight and speak his callsign. Then the creatures would dart back to the group.

“I think we’re almost under the mosque,” King said. The gigantic room ended just ahead at a large, flat wall, with a single unmarked metal door, the only aberration. Several wraiths remained in front of the door.

As King approached the door, more of the wraiths clustered before it, blocking his path.

“I don’t think they will allow—” Asya began, but King pressed on, shoving some of the wraiths away from the door. Others slid away at the sight of his forcefulness.

The gray, steel door had a knob, but no lock. King reached for it and unslung the AK-47 from his back. Asya drew her weapon as well. The wraiths kept their distance around them, but the circle now gave them ten feet of floor and ten feet of vertical wall. The wraiths swayed and hissed softly, as if awaiting instructions.

King slowly raised the AK in his left hand to a 45 degree angle, still careful to point it at the floor, and not directly at any of the gyrating creatures. With his right hand, he reached for the door knob. Some of the hisses increased in volume. He got the idea that while the Forgotten were, for some reason, standing down, once he opened the door, all bets would be off.

“Be ready to run in after me,” King said. “Three…two…one. Now!”

King whipped open the door, took one step and stopped short. But Asya ran into his back, shoving him forward into the obstacle.

The other side of the door was bricked up from top to bottom with old orange bricks and whitish mortar.

King coughed as the air was knocked from his lungs and his face pressed against the stone. But the impact was harmless. He recovered quickly and turned back to face Asya and the wraiths, who were hooting and shrieking again, as they had when he had first switched on the light.

I knew this was too simple.

The circle of wraiths moved in, hissing and howling.

FOURTEEN

Queen shuffled in her seat, trying to get comfortable. The flight would be a few hours, and she was already wound up. It didn’t help that this plane, a duplicate of the original Crescent, a stealth VTOL troop transport, was more spartan than its predecessor. Named for the craft’s curved flying-wing shape, the original Crescent had perished in battle the previous year, when King had piloted it into a tear in the fabric of reality, stopping an incursion from another dimension.

Although the half-billion dollar vehicle had been totaled, the move had arguably saved the world. Deep Blue had arranged for the team to keep Crescent’s twin, the Persephone, which had been assisting in the battle. Now renamed Crescent II, the current vehicle was Endgame’s for the foreseeable future.

Like its namesake, radar-reflective material covered the ship from one tip of its moon shape across 80 feet of breadth to its other tip. The giant, flat plane could carry 25,000 pounds of load and travel at above Mach 2. With VTOL capability, the plane could pick the team up anywhere and drop them off just as easily, but Queen didn’t like it. The original Crescent had been fairly plush inside. Crescent II was far more utilitarian, and Queen found herself missing that small bit of comfort in her life. She spent enough time in uncomfortable holes in the ground. She just hadn’t realized how much she had enjoyed the downtime in the original Crescent until she was faced with hours of nothing to do in Crescent II.

Her agitation over the uncomfortable seating came through in her voice when she spoke.

“You know the Three Ridleyteers are going to screw us the first chance they get. And if they don’t, the real Ridley will.” She tugged on the straps on her impact-resistant battle-armor suit, tightening a plate of gray metal and foam on her forearm.

“No kidding. I don’t particularly relish the thought of having to deal with four of that ass-clown,” Rook, clad in a similar battle suit, nodded toward the flat-screen LED monitor on the wall of the small troop area, showing the three clones strapped and chained to the wall of the rear cargo area of the plane. The Ridleys weren’t going anywhere, and the team needed some privacy to develop a plan as they rocketed across the Atlantic Ocean for Tunisia. “We can’t trust them, Blue.”

Deep Blue was with the team through their headsets, via an encrypted transmission across a military satellite. “I know, Rook. But they make some compelling arguments. Or at least Seth does, while his companions pretend to be deaf and mute.”

“Pretend?” Rook looked shocked, and turned to Queen, Knight and Bishop, as if to ask whether he was the only one that hadn’t seen through the deception. The others looked equally mystified.

“How?” Queen asked, and it was understood she was addressing Deep Blue.

“I’ve been carefully watching them the whole time. Enos reacts to loud noises, so he’s not really deaf. While they’ve been in the cargo area, I’ve seen Jared’s lips moving, although the audio sensors in the compartment haven’t picked up any sound. It’s likely he’s fooling too. Doesn’t matter. You’re right, Queen. They will turn on you at the first opportunity, but not until they have Ridley back. So stay sharp, and when the time is right, we’ll turn the tables on them.”

“What have you got planned?” Knight looked up from a fashion magazine he was reading.

“First things first. You need to remove Ridley’s regenerative abilities. Our scientists have had time to work on the original formula we used to cure George Pierce, back when Ridley infected him with the Hydra’s DNA. The formula now requires just a small dose to inhibit the regenerative strand. There’s a case on the bottom of the locker, Queen, if you’d retrieve it.”

Queen stood and walked over to a black metal weapons cabinet bolted to the wall of the crew room. It was empty except for a small black plastic case at the bottom. She returned to her chair and flipped open the case. Rook leaned over to see the contents.

The case held four small inch-long vials of nuclear green liquid and four spring-loaded auto-injector syringes.

“So we just stab one of these into Ridley?” Queen asked.

“Yes. It should work in seconds. If you can inject him covertly, he might not even know what’s happened. But be warned, Ridley will still have the mother tongue, and as long as he can speak, he’ll be able to heal from grievous injury.”

“Or turn us into paste,” Rook added.

“And that’s only if we take the clones at their word,” Deep Blue said, “which we shouldn’t do. They each might possess the mother tongue, but I doubt it.”

“What makes you doubt it?” Bishop asked, with his eyes closed. Queen had thought he was asleep and that she was going to need to fill him in later.

Deep Blue’s voice was absent from their earpieces for just a second, and then he came back. “If they could speak the mother tongue, they could literally move Heaven and Earth to get Ridley back. That the duplicates came to us and requested our help, means they really need it to free Ridley. If Seth and the others actually had the mother tongue, then they would each be unstoppable — and they would have freed Ridley from Alexander’s captivity long ago.”

“What do you suppose happens to the duplicates if Ridley were to die?” Queen asked. “Will they really just fall apart?”

“Theoretically, I suppose it could be true. In the original golem story, the rabbi that created it could later unmake it by destroying the word that gave it life. If the sacred word was written on a piece of paper, it could be removed from the golem’s mouth. If the text was inscribed on the golem’s body, it could simply be altered.”

“Emet to met,” Bishop said, recalling what they’d learned about golems while dealing with the threat.

“Exactly,” Deep Blue said. “Seeing as how Ridley spoke life into the duplicates, he could be the word himself.”

Rook shook his head. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

Deep Blue fell silent. The three other members of the team turned toward Rook. He noticed their collective gaze after a moment. “What? It’s from the Bible. Am I the only one that’s been to church?”

Deep Blue cleared his throat. “We have to also consider the possibility that Ridley was able to grant them real life. Under their skin might be blood and organs and minds that will continue to live after Ridley dies. It’s not what we saw with his other duplicates, but we can’t rule it out. And neither can they. I suspect it’s part of why they want to find him.”

“Pinocchio wants to become a real boy,” Knight said.

“That creates two wildly different motives, doesn’t it?” Queen asked.

Rook shook his head. “I’m not following. If Ridley dies and they die too, that gives them the motivation to keep him alive, right? That’s just based on survival. But if his life isn’t tied to theirs, they still want him freed, because he’s their what? Some kind of messiah, right? A god?”

“If they can live independently of him, they might simply want the mother tongue for themselves. It is a learned language. And never forget — each duplicate has the same crazed hunger for power. They are each as dangerous as the original — if not more so, because they see an unlimited potential for power within their grasps.”

“I got a question,” Bishop sat up in his chair and opened his eyes. “We know where Ridley is being held, and we know who has him. We know the danger he presents. And we have three more of him in the cargo hold, who, you just said, are possibly even more dangerous than the original…” Bishop paused, and the others present in the room turned to listen. “Why shouldn’t we just shoot these three in the head and drop a bomb on the secret base they’re taking us to?”

The room was quiet. Deep Blue did not comment.

“That would have been so much cooler if you’d quoted Bishop from Aliens,” Rook said. “‘It’s the only way to be sure.’”

No one smiled. Bishop had presented them with brutal, but clear logic that would end all their problems at once. Even Rook’s comparison to the Aliens movie fit. Why should they engage a proven and deadly enemy up-close and personal when they could end the fight from a safe distance?

When Deep Blue spoke again, he stopped the violent line of thinking. “We can’t drop a bomb; first because it’s a mosque and we don’t want to start World War III, and second… King is already on site.”

FIFTEEN

King raised the LED flashlight to his face and screamed as loudly as he could. He waved the rifle and rushed at the approaching horde of wraiths. The reaction was instantaneous. The wraiths — all of them, including those scrabbling with claws along the ceiling — turned and fled to the far end of the massive parking garage-like space.

A moment later, as King looked on bewildered, he saw a dim light at the end of the space, as the hatch he and Asya had entered through was opened. The hundreds of Forgotten poured out into the night.

King turned to his sister in the dark, the flashlight now pointed at the floor. “Did I forget to brush my teeth?”

“Whatever the reason, they are frightened of you. We should count ourselves lucky — and find a doorway that is not bricked up.”

King turned back to the bricked up door and began to run along the wall to the right. Asya followed him. After about a hundred yards, they came to another door, identical to the first. King opened it, the AK-47 at the ready. This door revealed a long dark corridor that sloped down at an angle.

“Jackpot. Let’s go,” King slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled out the Sig handgun. He raised the LED light, then sprinted down the darkened hallway.

“Shouldn’t we go slow? Look for booby-traps?” Asya asked, huffing behind him in the dark.

“If you had an army of those things would you need booby traps?”

“This is true.”

At the end of another few hundred yards, the corridor ended with an open stairwell. They descended what felt like three hundred more yards before the stairs ended at another corridor, this one moving in a right angle to the first. King guessed it would take them back toward the ruins of the Amphitheater, behind the giant mosque. Well, under the amphitheater, he thought.

Shortly they came to another stairwell leading up, and the corridor turned at another right angle, this time to their right.

King stopped to look at both possibilities.

“Up or right?” Asya asked. King noticed he was breathing harder than she was.

The stairs were metal and fairly new, with rust in only a few small spots. King took a few steps down the side corridor, then called to Asya. “This way. Look at the walls.”

Asya stepped closer until she could see what King had pointed at, in the light. The walls were concrete at the mouth of the tunnel, but after a few feet, the surface switched to ancient pitted stone.

“This is part of the ruins,” Asya said.

“That would be my guess. And if I’ve kept track of where we are accurately, this tunnel runs from beneath amphitheater to the Antonine Baths.”

“What about the staircase?” she asked.

“Maybe another entrance?” King shrugged. “Let’s see if this tunnel takes us to more ruins first. Ridley and Alexander are both fans of antiquity. My money is on the Baths.”

The stone corridor got smaller as they moved forward, and it began to slope sharply after two hundred yards. Then they came to a metal door, with a security keypad next to it.

King checked for security cameras and tripwires, then examined the keypad. It was a pretty simple pad, with just numbers and an enter button. He didn’t have any technological tools with him, and even if he did, he wasn’t very good at picking locks.

Asya reached for the doorknob on the door and pulled. The door gave about a half inch, then hit its stop. She titled her head to the side, to look at the gap the door made. She looked at King and raised her eyebrows at him. Then she pulled a curved plastic hairclip from her head, and slipped it around the edge of the door and into the gap. In less than ten seconds, King heard a click. The hairclip broke, but the door came open in Asya’s hand.

“Nice,” he told her.

“We do things low-tech in Russia,” she smiled.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the gag about the cosmonauts using a pencil.” King stepped in through the door to behold a large janitorial closet. The inside of the door held a large triangular plaque with a lightning bolt and a sign reading Electrical Breakers. He tapped the sign for Asya’s benefit.

“Camouflage. Effective,” she said.

“A secret escape tunnel for Ridley. The rest of his employees most likely didn’t know about it.” King moved across the closet to the opposing door, raised his Sig, and slowly cracked the door open.

They were in a well lit laboratory, with blinding white walls, stainless steel counters and cabinets, with bank after bank of fluorescent lamps lining the ceilings. The counters were filled with computers, microscopes and equipment King had only seen a few times before — in Manifold labs. He understood some of the basic principles of genetic science after studying up on the field when they had first run afoul of Ridley, but he really didn’t have a desire to press deeply into the subject. Viruses and DNA strands all felt like a tiny invisible world to him. Sara felt at home in that microscopic, unseen realm, but he would rather live in the world he could see, where there were threats he could shoot.

His thoughts drifted to his new fiancée for a moment. He’d left her in a hurry once again, and he couldn’t help but feel bad about it. She’d just finished pointing out the chaos of their lives and how hard it was going to be for them to have anything resembling a traditional marriage. She’d said yes, but he wondered if she was now second guessing that decision. Because really, who asks a girl to marry him and then flies halfway around the world to fight wraiths and Hercules? Of course, when he got home, she might already be flying off to some other corner of the world, fighting a breakout of some civilization-ending bird flu.

“What is all this stuff?” Asya asked, pointing to one of the few devices King recognized. It was a white plastic box that looked something like a futuristic cash register — as imagined by Stanley Kubrick for a 1960s sci-fi film.

“A PCR. It performs a timed-thermal cycle so you can get an amplification of a polymerase chain reaction.”

“Huh,” she grunted.

King smirked to himself. If she asked about a dozen other objects in the room he would have been clueless.

At the far side of the lab, were two black doors. King had seen similar doors in Endgame’s headquarters. He knew they would seal with rubber airtight stoppers the second any kind of biological contaminant was released in the room. He didn’t see any other exits, so he made his way to the bio doors and opened the first.

He peered into a long white hallway that stretched to his right. It had shiny white linoleum floors. Black doors lined the walls, leading to what he presumed were more labs. Directly opposite from his doors were another set labeled Cold Lab. King glanced behind him for the sign on his doors. Microbiology Lab.

To his left was an unmarked single door with a tiny window. The glass was reinforced with wire. “This way,” he whispered. Leading with his handgun, he slowly opened the single door and found what he was hoping for. More stairs. They had been painted a nightmare shade of institutional blue and the stairwell walls were a dull and lifeless gray. The steps led down.

Asya crept down the stairs behind him. “The floor above?” she whispered.

“Probably all labs. I’ve been in a few of Ridley’s places. They all have the same general segregation of living quarters from labs. What we want will be in the offices.”

At the bottom of the first set of stairs they came to a landing with a red fire extinguisher and another single black door. A plate above the door read Sub Level 2. King passed it and followed the steps deeper into the bowels of the facility. Asya asked no questions this time.

The steps ended at another door, labeled Sub Level 3. King gently opened this door, and peered down yet another long corridor, although this one was carpeted in soft gray, and the walls, while painted white, did not glare. The lighting in this hallway was recessed in the ceiling, casting a soft orange glow. The hall held doors only on the right. The first set, were double doors, and looked to be made of cherry wood. King spotted no sign of bio seals around the door’s edges. This one will be an office, he thought.

He was surprised by the room’s contents. It was not an office. Instead, it was a massive natural cave, and along the walls, strange technology lined every inch of the curved stone from floor to ceiling.

But it was the room’s occupant that really got King’s blood boiling. Standing at the far side of the cavern stood a man with dark curly hair and tanned skin. His chest and arms rippled with muscles, just barely contained beneath his business suit.

Alexander Diotrephes.

He turned just in time to see King rushing into the room and about to tackle him.

SIXTEEN

Daryl Trajan, known by his operational callsign of ‘Trigger’ to most, stayed perfectly still in his tree, on the northern edge of the ruins of the amphitheater. The sun was down, and there was no one around to see him, but he didn’t want to chance that the enemy’s sniper might be scoping his way. The man was said to be formidable with a long-range weapon — any long-range weapon.

Trigger had been on lookout at the amphitheater for hours, just like he had been the last two days, but today the boredom had cracked in half and blown away on the ocean breeze. First, he had spotted the slim guy in the Elvis t-shirt and some woman making for the fountain entrance of the Omega facility. Then he had witnessed the mass exodus of cloaked figures. The “cloaks”, as he’d dubbed them, gave him the willies, what with their shriveled gray skin and their herky-jerky movements, but he felt pretty sure he would have no problem mowing them down with his HK416. The assault rifle looked like an AR-15—black and sexy — but with a wicked scope and a vertical fore-grip. Even though he mostly made his bones as a mercenary by shooting things, for this job, so far all they had done is surveillance.

Trigger keyed his tactical microphone and called in the new development.

“Trigger to Carpenter, I’ve got eyes on the flying wing. Team is landing in the field north of the mosque.”

“Trigger, this is Eagle. I want a complete account of who emerges from that transport.” The unexpected voice was deep and gravelly.

Crap, Trigger thought. He had been expecting his fellow mercenary and friend, Carpenter, to answer the call. But apparently the Big Boss was here now. The man was ugly as sin, with a huge bald head criss-crossed with scars and a jagged hole where an ear should have been. He had chosen the name Eagle for himself, but behind his back, most of the mercs referred to him as Beak, because of the man’s immense nose.

“Tell me about the cloaks you saw too,” Eagle said over Trigger’s earpiece.

“Well, sir, like I told Carpenter, shortly after Elvis and the woman went in the fountain entrance, the cloaks started streaming out of it. They headed southwest into the trees on the other side of the parking lot.”

“We’ve seen the cloaks make for those trees before,” Eagle said, his voice grating like metal scraped on concrete. “Why was this different?”

“This wasn’t just a small pack of them. This looked like all of them. Hundreds. Maybe a thousand. And they were moving fast. They were in a damn hurry.”

“No sign of them since?”

“None, sir. I’ve got eyes now on the sniper and the big one, exiting the craft. The one with the hand cannons is leading three bald men as prisoners,” Trigger described each occupant of the strange stealth craft, as they exited and took to the field. He looked on through the scope of his rifle as the short sniper and the big guy moved directly toward him, but neither seemed on guard yet. They were just hustling to get out of the open. “I have a shot on the sniper and the big one.”

“Negative. I repeat, do not fire. We want all of them, and we want them inside the facility. What about the blonde woman?”

“Not yet, I — wait a minute. I’ve got her on the ground behind Hand Cannons. Transport is dusting off and they are all making for my position. I need to bug out soon.” Trigger was frustrated that he couldn’t just snipe the targets now. If he took out the sniper first, they’d all be sitting ducks. Still, if Eagle was paying the bills, then Trigger would do as he was told.

“Pack up and head out, Trigger. They’re probably heading for the amphitheater entrance anyway. Remember, we want them all inside the facility — and the blonde bitch is mine. Acknowledge.” Eagle’s voice sounded plenty angry over the radio. Trigger wasted no time replying.

“Acknowledged. The blonde is all yours. Making for the fountain entrance. Trigger out.”

He climbed down out of his tree as quickly as he could, without disturbing the branches and leaves. Even without a scope, the sniper might have really good eyes. No point taking a chance.

Trigger hit the ground and started moving west. He crossed a small field, and seconds later was hidden from the incoming targets, the giant mosque blocking their line of sight. He made his way across the boulevard and rendezvoused with four more mercs at the fountain entrance — all the while keeping an eye on the woods, in case the spooky cloaks came back. But Trigger figured them for gone. The way they had left made it seem like they were bailing for good. But the rest of Trigger’s team had eyes on the only other entrance. So there was no way the Greek had escaped. He was inside still. So were Elvis and the woman. Now the rest of the team would be inside soon too, with the three bald men.

The plan seemed as safe and secure as it could be. Almost too secure. Dull, even. They would wait until the enemy team entered the facility, then Trigger and his men would enter from the fountain, while a second group followed their targets into the amphitheater entrance. Finally, Eagle and the rest would enter through the secret vehicle entrance in the woods northwest of the nearby American Cemetery. Trigger still found it crazy that a huge US military cemetery was smack dab in the middle of North Africa, but it made sense. Some 2800 white crosses lined the 27-acre field, all American casualties from World War II. There was a tunnel that ran underground from the cemetery to the loading dock in the bottom of the subterranean Manifold facility.

All three entrances covered. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Trigger and the rest of the mercenary forces working for Eagle would come in like the waves of the ocean in a fierce storm, smashing and crashing, devastating everything in their path. The Greek and the enemy group Beak had referred to as Chess Team would have no escape. It was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel — with a howitzer.

SEVENTEEN

When King crashed into Alexander, it felt like hitting a brick wall. He’d let the AK go flying to the floor, and he lost the Sig on impact with Alexander’s bulky chest. But the collision was still satisfying, as both he and Alexander slammed into the wall of machinery.

“King, wai—” Alexander started, but King had scrambled up to his knees and rammed his fist into Alexander’s nose. King felt cartilage crunch under his fist, and Alexander howled, as a burst of bright red blood arced away from his face.

King was pulling his fist back for a second pistoning shot at the same spot, when Alexander let out a roar like a lion and flung his arm out wildly. The strength in the sweep of Alexander’s arm took King by surprise. The man was flailing, but King still found himself airborne, sailing across the room.

King’s body hit the polished stone floor of the room and slid, as if he were on the bright yellow Slip n’ Slide he had as a kid. He came to rest with his arm outstretched and his Sig in view across the floor. He lunged for the gun. Alexander would be much too tough an opponent for him. Thoughts of what might happen to his head if Alexander landed a clean punch helped to speed him across the slippery floor.

“Jack, you don’t under — oh no you don’t,” Alexander’s booming voice grew louder as the man rushed King like a freight train. King dove to the slick floor, counting on his slide to take him the rest of the way to the weapon.

His fingers reached out and grasped the grip of the Sig, just as Alexander slammed into him. They both slid toward the open doors King had rushed through. Asya was nowhere in sight. King had just a split second to wonder where his backup went, before his arm was coming up with the gun as his body continued to slide. Alexander’s meaty hand was on his wrist, forcing his arm back.

King bent his wrist as far as it would go and started pulling the trigger, hoping he would either hit some part of Alexander’s flesh or at least make the man back down.

Instead, the sound of the shots booming in the echoing rock cavern filled the large man with fury, and suddenly, through Alexander’s roar of anger, King found himself lifted and shoved hard against the wall of the cavern. The collision with the unyielding stone took his breath away, but his anger at this man for endangering his parents was making King see red. He pulled the trigger of the Sig as he swung his dangling leg up and connected with Alexander’s crotch. The big man flinched, but then pulled King’s body, which he was completely suspending in the air now, away from the wall a few inches, before slamming King backward yet again.

King felt ribs break and his whole body started tingling, as his ears roared with adrenaline. The Sig was lost and Alexander’s eyes were filled with fury as he smashed King against the wall a third time, then moved his grip, so he was holding King aloft by his neck.

Alexander began to speak again, but King could only hear the man as if he were a long way away.

“…what I’m trying to explain to you…”

King’s arm was down by his side and brushed the pocket of his jeans. He felt the small hard lump on his hip, and his fingers dipped into the pocket. The jeans felt tight with the object in his pocket, and his fingers had a hard time reaching around the thing. Finally, the tip of his middle finger hooked on something and he tugged.

“We can end this right now!” Alexander was shouting.

King feebly moved his left fist up as if to punch at Alexander’s face. He kept his speed slow and his accuracy way off. It was the perfect feint. Alexander turned toward the arm and brought his own up to block the strike.

Then King moved like a striking cobra, swinging his other arm up and inside the outstretched arm that held him in the air. The pineapple grenade in his fist, King launched the metal upward and bent his wrist back at the last second, so the grenade crunched into Alexander’s already broken nose, and King’s fingers were spared from being mashed.

Alexander stumbled back and dropped King. King landed in a crouch on his feet, then sprang back up, catching a sharp breath from the broken glass feeling in his side as he did so. His arm swung out like a baseball pitcher’s and the fist clutching the grenade came down on top of Alexander’s head at the apex of King’s jump, once again, the metal connecting with bone.

Alexander staggered back, unsteady on his feet, his arms swinging around like a wild brawler in a bar-room fight, punching at invisible enemies. Then his eyes cleared. They were dark and full of rage.

Oh shit, King just had time to think.

Then the legendary Hercules — healed of all his injuries — was running for him.

King backed up to the wall, and waited for a blink, then dove to the side. Alexander — barreling at King at full speed like the fabled minotaur — mashed into the wall of the cavern. He brought his arms in front of him at the last second, his forearms crossed at the wrists to help cushion the blow. But his speed and strength were no match for centuries old stone. When Alexander hit the wall, the stone exploded outward, spewing large hunks of rubble and the powerhouse of a man out into the carpeted corridor. He tumbled and sprawled into the wall on the opposite side of the hallway before he hit the floor.

King was stunned. He knew he needed his weapon and he needed it fast. He quickly scanned the floor of the room. Where is the damn AK? But then he spotted his Sig Sauer, tucked under the front of a desk with a computer monitor, and a stack of papers on it. He raced across the room and leapt onto the floor, the polished surface gliding him right to the weapon. The jolt to his ribs when his hip hit the floor made him wince, but this fight would soon be over.

King reached out to grasp the gun, but it was struck and knocked out of reach. A cloud of red dust shot out from under the table and small chunks of stone scattered everywhere, several pieces pinging into King. He turned and stood, to see Alexander was standing in the giant hole he had torn in the wall. He held a slab of rubble twice the size of a human skull in his right hand, and the intention was clear.

The man had deadly aim. He had thrown a stone across the room that had smashed into the Sig and probably launched it far under the computer desk. The next shot would be to King’s skull.

Still holding the grenade in his left hand, King sneered at Alexander and reached the fingers of his right hand for the safety pin. Alexander pulled his arm back with the stone and let it fly.

EIGHTEEN

A scream rang out through the room as Alexander threw the large stone and started to charge toward King.

“Ostanovit!” Asya’s Russian shout was punctuated with a rapid burst of 7.92 mm bullets blasting into the stone ceiling, one of which made a wild ricochet noise, when it bounced off. “Stop! Both of you!” The sharp tang of gunpowder filled the space.

King flinched at the sound of gunfire in the confined space. The thrown stone whistled harmlessly overhead and shattered against the wall behind the computer desk. Rocky debris sprayed to the floor in a clatter that echoed in the abject silence after the gunshots. Alexander halted his most recent charge and turned to look at Asya. She stood in another doorway that led from the cavern into what appeared to be a small sitting room.

Asya had the AK-47 trained on Alexander. No one spoke for a minute.

“I’ll ask you kindly, dear lady, not to fire that in here again. This room is full of very delicate scientific equipment.” Alexander stood up straight and began swatting dust and dirt off his torn suit jacket. A flap of fabric that should have been on his chest hung down nearly to his knee. He picked up the flap and looked at it in disgust, then stripped out of the jacket and let it drop to the floor. The front of his white dress shirt had a spatter of blood down the neck and chest, from when King had broken his nose.

King reached under the computer desk and retrieved his Sig. It was scratched and coated in red dust, but it appeared mostly undamaged. He slipped the grenade — its pin still intact — in his pocket again, then stood and trained the pistol on Alexander with his right hand, while clutching his broken rib with his left.

“Morons, come!” Asya turned her back and began walking into the adjoining room.

“Morons?” King asked, his voice rising and a fight still in him.

Asya wheeled back on the men. “Yes!” she shouted. “Morons!” She pointed at Alexander. “You are idiot for letting us think you had kidnapped our parents! How did you think it would end?”

Alexander was about to reply, but Asya whirled to face King. “And you! You had pistol and rifle. You had a grenade! But you chased after him and tried to stop him with your fists? Yeban ko maloletneye.” She turned and stalked off into the adjoining room.

King looked at Alexander. “What did she just say?”

Alexander shrugged. “My Russian is a little rusty, but I think she called you an ‘adolescent jerk.’ It might have been something about a donkey, though.”

King motioned for Alexander to follow Asya with his Sig. His rib hurt like a bastard, but he didn’t want Alexander to see. He followed the large man into a lounge, which was separated by a thick metal door.

The lounge was lushly appointed with overstuffed comfortable-looking sofas, and armchairs. Off to the side of the room was a wet bar where a man was pouring a drink of single malt scotch for himself. King recognized the man instantly.

“Dad?”

Peter Machtchenko was clean shaven in a pinstripe gray suit that complimented his salt and pepper hair. The wrinkles around his eyes revealed his age to be in the fifties, but his level of fitness and posture suggested a much younger man. King glanced to a chair on the opposite side of the room and saw his mother. Lynn Machtchenko wore a tan pair of slacks and a long-sleeved white cotton blouse with a culturally appropriate scarf around her neck that she would cover her head with, when she went out. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating her facial similarity to Asya. Her eyes were kind, with a hint of a smile in them. Neither seemed concerned about the battle that had been fought in the room next door. The thick door and walls must have dampened the sound.

“You’re both here… You’re okay?” King’s voice was quiet. Stunned.

“Why don’t you have a drink, son?” Peter said from across the room, dropping ice cubes into a crystal glass with a loud clink. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Actually, if you’ll all excuse me, I’d like to go change my clothes first,” Alexander said.

King raised his Sig at the man. “I don’t think so. You’re the one with the most explaining to do. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Alexander turned to face King. “Look, Jack, the scientific equipment in the next room represents the last fifty years of my hard work, and several hundred years of planning. I’m not going anywhere. I just want to put on a clean shirt. Then I’ll answer all of your questions.” He looked King in the eye, and raised his eyebrows. “All of them. Okay?”

King squinted at the man, still not fully trusting him. “Fine.”

Asya walked over and handed the rifle to King, then patted him on the shoulder. “Compromise. Just like big boys. Very nice.” Then she moved over to a sofa and sat down.

Alexander chuckled, then walked to a set of doors leading from the lounge into the hallway. “I’ll be right back.”

King slipped the strap of the AK over his shoulder and slid the Sig into the waistband of his jeans, behind his back. Then, gingerly, he sat down in a wingback chair.

“Were you hurt?” Lynn asked, concern making the smile in her eyes vanish.

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” King grunted. “Just a broken rib. Why are you two here?”

Peter walked over with a glass of scotch and set it on a glass-topped coffee table for King, then he took his own glass and plopped in a chair next to Lynn. “Well, it’s kind of a long story.”

King raised an eyebrow at the man. “Asya and I have been looking for you two all over the globe. We’ve spent a small fortune, used government assets and put ourselves in harm’s way to find you.”

“Not to mention a totally unnecessary fist fight with a guy who heals faster than I can say ‘Hercules,’” Asya said. She was joking, but not smiling. They were both relieved that their parents were alive, but neither were happy to find they’d been duped.

“So you’re going to tell us everything.” King leaned back in his chair. “You take just as long as you need.”

NINETEEN

“Alright, Dad. Let’s have it.” King leaned forward in the chair, then instantly regretted it, as a fresh shot of bone-jangling pain ripped through his side.

“Well, you already know that Lynn and I worked for the Russian government,” Peter began.

“That’s putting it mildly. You were spies. Sleeper agent spies, no less. You still are spies—” King spat.

“No, son. That’s where you’re wrong. We wanted out. What I told you about when we last met was true. But we got roped into one last job, which was supposed to be our way out. For good.”

King recalled the story he had been told about Peter and Lynn Machtchenko breaking all ties from the Soviets in 1988. Russia had sent assassins after them just the once. King didn’t know the particulars beyond the fact that his mother, who he’d always seen as a gentle woman, shot the man. The would-be assassin survived, but the implication was that the Russians would never try it again. But then, years later, Peter had been outed by the US Government, who promptly threw him in jail for a decade. Upon his release three years ago, the KGB came sniffing again, hoping to reactivate Peter and Lynn as resources on US soil. The couple had created an elaborate scam to fake Lynn’s death, but King had stumbled upon it.

“Your story would work just fine except for the fact that you bugged me. Oh yeah, and there were those dead bodies in your hotel room. And then you were gone. You better have something more meaningful than ‘Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.’” King was getting tired of the lies. He looked over to Asya and found her simply nodding in agreement.

“Do you remember my twenty-second birthday?” Asya asked, looking at Peter. “The hunting trip? You gave me a speech that day, about honesty.”

“I remember,” her father said.

“I think it’s time you took your own advice and—”

“Hold on,” King said, on the verge of imploding. “Your twenty-second birthday?”

Peter’s eyes turned toward the floor.

King groaned. “You were never in jail, were you?”

“Jail?” Asya said, baffled.

“You let me think you were in jail for ten years?” King shook his head, feeling a mixture of betrayal and sadness.

“The fewer people who knew about Asya, the better,” Lynn said. “We have a lot of enemies. You have more. Family can be a weakness, so we hid you from each other. I raised you in the States. Your father raised Asya in Russia.”

King understood the reasoning. It was classic spy paranoia, which wasn’t necessarily unfounded. But the presence of his sister, of his still living sister, had become a source of stability for him over the past few months. “Family can also be a strength.”

Lynn nodded. “We’re together now. I hope it will be enough.”

“Things have changed in Russia,” Peter said, moving on. “Old elements are reclaiming power. They found me again. I had no choice but to make a deal. One last job. For your sister’s sake. It was just supposed to be surveillance. They wanted to know your activities and whereabouts. I was assured you were not a target. It was just intel. I figured what could it hurt? You were already wrapped up in your own problems with the attack on Fort Bragg. People were actively trying to kill you. Doing that one last job was supposed to ensure our immunity, and get them to leave you — both of you — alone for good.” Peter sighed loudly, then sipped his scotch.

Lynn leaned forward in her chair, her long scarf falling from her neck to her lap. “We were set up, but so were the Russians. It turned out they were being pressured from a business partner that wanted the information…”

“Let me guess,” King interrupted. “Richard Ridley.”

“Exactly,” Lynn continued. “And once things started to go haywire for him, his people picked us up. They were surprisingly good. We were really good once too, but we’re getting up there in years. Neither of us stood much of a chance.”

King winced at the thought of his parents being mistreated by Ridley’s thugs.

“So what happened next?” Asya asked.

“I did.” Alexander entered the room from the hallway, holding a large tray with a tea service. He wore a new pale blue shirt, and dark slacks. His face was clean and his hair was damp. His nose looked mended. “I suggest we have some tea. It’s my own brew. Very relaxing.”

When King raised an eyebrow, Alexander smiled. “It’s just tea, Jack. But if you want something for that rib you’re clutching, I still have some of the seeds from the Garden of Hesperides.”

King recalled the effects of the apple seed. When crushed and liquefied, they acted as a potent regenerative medicine. King himself had been healed by one once, thanks to his good friend, George Pierce.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll heal the old fashioned way,” King said.

“Thought you might say that,” Alexander tossed a white plastic bottle through the air toward King. “Heads up.”

King caught the bottle in the air with his left hand, grimacing, as his chest muscles stretched.

“800 milligram ibuprofen tablets — the old fashioned way. Have some green tea to wash it down.” Alexander began pouring tea from an ornate golden cloisonné kettle into delicate little matching teacups. King raised an eyebrow at the man again.

“Seriously,” the large man said. “Green tea has long been known to reduce the risks of heart disease and cancer, as well as boosting the metabolic rate. Plus, it’s soothing to the nerves.”

“You were saying about my parents?” King asked, watching the man’s hands for any signs that he was slipping something into the brew.

“Peter and Lynn were being held by Ridley’s people. While Chess Team was content with the New Hampshire base, my people were taking all the other Manifold facilities around the world.” Alexander nodded to Peter and Lynn. “I freed them. They were in Singapore under my protection until last week, when I brought them here. You see, Jack, Ridley was long fascinated with all aspects of antiquity. One of the things he wanted most — the mother tongue — he eventually got his hands on, as you well know. But to get there, he hunted down every sign and every clue he could find that would lead him to the last living speakers of several ancient languages. You know all this.”

Alexander finished pouring the tea, placed a cup on the table in front of King, next to the untouched glass of scotch, then took his own seat, next to Asya. He pursed his lips, blew on his cup to cool the brew, then sipped his tea. The tiny teacups looked ridiculous in his massive hands.

Lynn reached for her own cup and took a sip. Alexander had not poured a cup for Peter. The man still had a glass of scotch in his hands. King eyed the tea suspiciously, but seeing no ill effects on Lynn, and not wanting to be rude, he sipped the brew. It was strangely lacking in flavor, like drinking hot water. He wondered why anyone would drink it. Still, he popped the ibuprofen and washed it down with another sip of the scalding liquid.

“Those speakers of ancient languages all had one other thing in common, Jack. Something I didn’t find out until too late, which is why so many of them perished, and why I was so keen to safeguard them all.” Alexander scowled at the thought of the dead that he had failed to protect.

“What did they have in common?” King asked.

Alexander looked directly at him. “Me.”

King turned to Asya, but she looked as confused as he did.

“I don’t follow.”

“Jack, I know you might not believe it, but I am several centuries old. How many offspring do you think a man like me might have had over those years?”

Then it hit King all at once. “No…”

Asya hadn’t figured it out yet. “What?”

“All those people…my daughter. They’re all your descendants.” King looked at Alexander, with his mouth open. “And…shit. We are too.” He glanced at Asya again so she would know the ‘we’ implicated her.

Alexander nodded. “As is your father. I didn’t know at first, but I looked into the incident when your mother bugged you.”

“Sorry, son,” Lynn smiled sheepishly.

“I had suspected our connection for quite some time, Jack.” Alexander drank his tea.

“You mean to tell me you weren’t tracking my movements?” King asked.

“Think about it, Jack. Centuries, and generation after generation? I can’t possibly keep track of all my descendants. But sometimes I come across someone I’m sure about. You noticed that you and your sister were immune to those creatures — you called them Dire Wolves — in Norway, while the rest of your team was affected?” Alexander pointed to King and Asya. “My blood, diluted by centuries of course, but enough to keep you from feeling the effects of those creatures.”

King recalled that other members of Chess Team and even support members of Endgame had been affected by a fear-inducing sonic cry from the creatures they had faced the previous year. He alone had seemed immune to the effect. But during the final battle, he had discovered that Asya was likewise unaffected.

“Wait, you’ve mentioned that you’ve been known by many names. Was one of them Adoon?”

Alexander’s face darkened. “Where did you hear that name?”

“In Norway. The thing we fought — Fenrir — referred to us as the ‘Children of Adoon.’ I thought at the time that it was speaking of Earth’s inhabitants or referring to the Biblical children of Adam, but it wasn’t, was it? It was talking about me…and my connection to you. Who the hell are you?”

Alexander sighed. “I’m just a man trying to get home, Jack. And I need your help.”

“When you say ‘home,’ you don’t mean Greece, do you?”

TWENTY

It had been only a few hours, but Queen, was already deeply tired of the three Ridley clones. They were the enemy, but as much as she wanted them gone, she needed to understand them.

“So you three are exact duplicates of the original Ridley? You have the same emotions, the same thoughts? How does that work?” she asked.

They were standing in the ruins of the Roman amphitheater, a large circular walled field with patchy grass and stone debris of what Queen guessed were once buildings. The remains of pillars stood around the circumference of the stadium — some only nubs after the ravages of time. A lone standing pillar stood on a raised platform. The center of the arena had a recessed area like a trench with gates on either end. Seth led them down to one of the gates, which he then unlocked with a key.

“As I’ve said, we three do not possess the mother tongue, but as I understand it, our Creator used the mother tongue to merge his DNA with the raw material he imbued with life.

Queen raised an eyebrow. It sounded hokey as hell, but she’d seen it with her own eyes more than once. “By raw material you mean, what, clay?”

“It is the most stable of elements with which to imbue life,” he replied. “And our lives began as fully formed duplicates of our Creator, complete with his memories, aspirations and intellect. But from that moment forth, we each began creating new memories and having new thoughts shaped by our individual experiences. So while two years ago we were duplicates in every way of Richard Ridley, now we might even be considered human, as we have each led separate lives and made choices our Creator might not have.”

“That’s too bad,” Queen said, as they entered the shadowed end-chamber behind the gate. Knight and Bishop had barrel-mounted flashlights on their MP-5 submachine guns that illuminated the space around them. Jared moved to the wall and began running his fingers along the top, where it met the ceiling. When his fingers found an indentation, he slipped his index and middle finger inside.

“Why is that?” Seth asked.

A loud clatch noise filled the arched space, and a portion of the stone wall began to slide back on incredibly quiet pistoning motors. Queen could just barely hear them hissing like air compressors.

She shoved Seth toward the open doorway. “Because I was thinking about killing one of you. If you were just plain old duplicates of Ridley, I wouldn’t shed a tear. But on the off chance that as ‘new humans’ you might have some redeeming quality, I’ll keep you alive a little longer.”

Seth stepped into the new opening, which revealed a modern metal stairwell and concrete walls. He reached to the wall and flipped on a light switch. Suddenly the stairwell was lit up with bright fluorescent spotlights mounted on the walls and protected by metal cages. He turned to Queen. “That is very considerate of you.”

Rook walked past the man, intentionally slamming his shoulder into Seth’s. “I didn’t make any such promise, cupcake.”

Seth looked at Knight, but the short Korean just stalked away into the stairwell after Rook and the other two duplicates.

Then Bishop walked toward Seth. “Don’t even look at me.” Unlike Rook, Bishop walked around Seth, as he made for the stairs. He was the poster child for anger management, but that was primarily because he stored up his rage for when he really needed it most. Then he became a volcano. If he let himself rough up one of the duplicates, he might just open the flood gates and end one of them.

Or all of them.

Queen, on the other hand, had no trouble being physical. She took Seth by his shoulder, and with one deft twist of her hand, she guided his body around, so he faced the stairs. Then she shoved him to follow Bishop.

The stone door slid quietly shut behind the group as they made their way down the stairs. At the bottom, they faced two corridors, but Jared, the supposedly mute duplicate, pointed down the tunnel leading west. Eventually they came to a metal door. On the wall beside it was a keypad.

Jared tapped in a code of five 9s, and the door unlocked with a soft clicking noise. Enos, the supposedly deaf duplicate, pulled the door handle open to reveal a janitorial closet filled with mops and bottles of cleaning supplies on high shelves.

At the other side of the closet-sized space was another door.

Queen nudged Seth.“What’s on the other side of that door?”

“It’s a biology lab. Should be empty. There’s no more staff here. Just Alexander and his…servants. But as far as we could tell, they tend to congregate near the mouth of the vehicle entrance for some reason. We’re taking you in a different way. We should be able to get to where Alexander is holding the Creator without being seen. Unless Alexander is present. He’s the only real obstacle.”

“I’m less worried about him than I am about you three,” Queen mumbled.

Seth smiled. “Across the bio lab to the hallway. Turn right and go all the way to the end. We’ll take the stairs down. At that point we’ll need to be quiet in case Alexander has protection about.”

Knight led the way, with his MP-5 submachine gun at the ready. He’d normally have an XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle strapped to his back, but for this mission, sniping wasn’t going to be a useful skill. Behind him, Jared and Enos followed, with Bishop coming behind them, also armed with an MP-5. The weapon felt tiny to him, but the large machine guns he typically wielded in the field weren’t the best choice for enclosed spaces or fast getaways. Finally, Seth followed Bishop, and Queen brought up the rear.

They moved across the lab with its shiny tables and brilliant white walls into a hallway exactly as Seth had described. At the far end of it, after passing several doors labeled for different kinds of labs—Cold, Sequencing, Data, and Restoration—and one door labeled Personnel, they came to the stairwell, and descended. Queen noted the sign on the back of the door as she closed it. Sub Level 1. They passed Sub Level 2, and stopped at a door for Sub Level 3. Jared waited at the door as she and Seth descended to the floor.

“What’s on Sub Level 2?” she asked Seth.

“Mostly office space. This level is primarily storage and the loading dock I mentioned,” Seth answered her in a quiet voice, not quite a whisper. “We’ll need to move silently from here. The hallway runs straight through to the other side of the facility, just like the hallway on Sub Level 1. On the right will be a solid wall. On the left there’ll be a storage room, the dock, and then the security room, where He will be. After the security room is a bathroom, more storage and a small lounge. Then a natural cavern and another stairwell at the end of the hall. Any questions?”

Queen shook her head. She peeked through the wire-reinforced window in the door. The hallway looked like Seth had described it. “Bishop, you’re on point. Knight, keep an eye on our six. Rook, you keep an eye on the Three Amigos, here.” Bishop stepped in front of Jared and grasped the doorknob with one hand, his MP-5 at the ready in the other. “Go.”

Bishop slipped the door open and moved out into the carpeted hallway. As promised, they passed an unmarked door on the left, and then came to two windowed doors that led to the loading dock. Bishop peered through one of the windows and motioned that they could continue. As Queen slipped past the door, following Seth, she glanced in and saw a large concrete platform that dropped away to a larger lower space where a bright yellow forklift sat in front of a ramp. On the end of the dock was a blue metal dumpster. Otherwise, the dock was free of vehicles, and there were no signs of any people or Alexander’s wraiths.

The next room was clearly marked Security. Bishop paused at the door, then opened it slowly, the barrel of the submachine gun leading. As prophesied, the room was empty. Five black office chairs sat on casters in front of five darkened monitors and computer stations. At the back of the room on the left was a door with a security pad, like the one they had seen upstairs.

“He will be in here,” Seth began to rush toward the door, but Bishop shoved the man roughly aside. Rook turned a fierce gaze on the other two duplicates, but neither made a move.

Queen stepped up to the door and the keypad. “What’s the code?”

“It should be disabled with the code we punched in upstairs,” Seth replied. He looked surly about having been held back from his master.

Queen opened the door and stepped in. When she gasped, Rook was right behind her into the room.

“Oh my God,” she managed. “This is… This is…”

“That’s some gnarly fuckin’ potatoes, is what that is,” Rook said.

They were looking at Richard Ridley — or what was left of him.

TWENTY-ONE

The vehicle paused at the entrance to the ramp that led from the massive underground parking garage to the loading dock down on Sub Level 3. He climbed out of the white van and checked that his Beretta M9 handgun was seated in its holster. Then he walked across the huge echoing space, leaving three more vans and the bulk of his men to wait.

He knew a small team of three covered the amphitheater exit above ground, but most of the men would go in with him through the loading dock. He was damn glad that the cloaks had mysteriously bugged out. That would make his job a lot easier. He loved it when things came together smoothly on an op — not like that mess in the Ukraine, where he’d lost an ear to that blonde bitch.

A few more strides across the deserted concrete floor and he came to the ladder at the base of the fountain. Two men stood to either side of the metal ladder, and he knew a third would be up top, hidden in the trees near the unused fountain.

The men snapped to attention at the sight of him.

“Who’s topside?” he asked.

“Sir, Trigger is up top, in a tree about ten meters from the entrance.” The man was short, with thick hairy forearms, covered in thin straight scars. Eagle respected the man and his knife fighting scars. There were a lot of them, but seeing as how the man was standing here, his opponents faired far worse. “Sounds good, Carpenter. You two stay frosty. When the shit hits the fan — and it will — things are likely to bubble up here. Anyone not wearing solid black BDUs like us? You dust them. That includes the clones.”

“Understood, sir.” Carpenter nodded.

Eagle smiled grimly.

Carpenter’s companion, a greasy, nasty man named Keller, who went by the callsign of Raven, simply stood and looked forward, as if Eagle wasn’t even there. Eagle wondered if Raven’s bearing was from his time in the Marines, or if he was just zoned out on drugs. It didn’t really matter too much. You took what you could get with a mercenary force. Most of the soldiers were veterans of multiple engagements, and they would all stay loyal through the mission; the money he had promised them would ensure that.

Eagle, tall, imposing and to his own mind, hideously deformed, turned and strode back across the garage to his waiting caravan of mercenary soldiers. Each was armed with smoke grenades, and AK-47s, like his. Except for a few of the men, who were less than savory, he liked most of them. Twenty-three in all, they made a nice round twenty-four with him. His own little private army, funded with money from the former Manifold Genetics.

He keyed his microphone as he walked. “Station Two, give me a sit-rep.”

“This is Mason at Station Two. They just went in. We gave them five and moved in after them to lock the gate down. No one coming in or out over here, Eagle.” The voice was young, but Eagle knew the man was a competent fighter, and the veteran of some bloody battles in Rwanda and Burundi. Eagle had brought the young man on the previous year.

“Excellent. We’re moving in. Expect things might come your way. Anything coming down that tunnel is to be considered hostile. Kill it. Eagle out.”

He smiled and strode back to the waiting line of vans. As he reached the third van in the convoy, he slapped the side of it hard. In response, the driver started the engine. Without needing to be told to do so, the second and first vans did likewise. Eagle stepped up to the passenger side door on the first van and slid into his seat. He pulled an AK-47 up out of the foot-well, and lowered the window, leaning the tip out. He knew the vehicle tunnel leading three levels down to the dock was plenty wide for the vans. There was no danger of hitting the walls with the tip of the rifle.

“It’s time for the Chess Team and Alexander Diotrephes to die. Let’s go,” Eagle barked.

The driver threw the van into drive and slowly proceeded down the ramp.

Then Eagle keyed his microphone again. “This is Eagle. Squad One is moving in. Squads Two and Three, stay alert. If the fighting gets past us to the surface, you move in.”

Twenty-Four men in the immediate fight. Another forty-eight waiting up top — just in case.

Oh yes, he thought. In less than an hour, this installation will be mine. He would execute the members of Chess Team. Kill off the intruding Greek. Eliminate the ridiculous doubles. Then Omega, and its information on the last resting place of the Chest of Adoon would be his. And along the way, he’d get to stab that bitch that took his ear. It was going to be a great day. Darius Ridley was finally going to have his revenge.

TWENTY-TWO

Alexander led King back into the adjacent cavern-like room. Peter and Lynn remained in the lounge with Asya, speaking in animated Russian. King really looked at the equipment along the walls in the cavern. Before, he had been too busy trying to stay alive. But now, some of the arched metal structures lined with thick electrical cables in their black rubber insulation, reminded him of something he’d seen before.

“How did you get here so quickly? I was expecting you, of course, but not for a few more weeks, if I’m honest.” Alexander moved to the wall of machinery. He examined a few parts of the curved metal, tugged on cables as if to ensure they were not loose and scrutinized small parts. Then he nodded, as if assuring himself that the machine was built correctly. King figured it was all an act to appear disinterested in how King had found the man.

“The library in Malta,” King said, leaving the explanation at that.

“How did you get past the Forgotten?” Alexander asked. Then he turned, a storm of anger brewing in his tanned face. “You didn’t kill them, did you?”

“No. Once they saw who I was, they let me pass. Made things a whole lot easier that you told them to leave me be.” King walked past Alexander to look closer at one part of the machinery. The arched design made the thing look like a seven foot tall Greek letter for Omega: Ω. King wondered how much of the tech he was looking at came from Ridley and how much from Alexander.

“Did they?” Alexander mumbled, absentminded as he checked over a computer screen, attached to the side of the machinery. “Hmm. Well, I suppose that makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Then he turned to King, all pretenses at dithering with the machine done. King was watching the man like a hawk.

“Do you recognize elements of the design?” Alexander pointed to the Omega shaped piece of machinery, and all at once, King knew his suspicions were correct. This was the same machinery he’d dealt with in Norway, the designs for which were on a laptop stolen from Endgame headquarters.

“You know I won’t let you activate it,” King said. His hand hung loose at his side, but it could easily reach for the Sig Sauer in his waistband, if need be.

“Actually, Jack, I’m hoping you’ll be the one to help me activate it.”

“You’re nuts. The last time dimensional tech like this was activated, it ate half the planet. If you think—” King began.

“Please,” Alexander said, holding out his hands, to appease King. “Just let me explain a few things.”

King stopped his rant, and just looked at Alexander, raising his eyebrows, as if to say There’s no way you can convince me, but go ahead.

“I’ve spent hundreds of years amassing scientific knowledge and acquiring technology like this,” Alexander pointed a brawny arm at the machine along the wall, “all for one purpose. I’m not a bad man, Jack. Yes, I’ve made some mistakes, and yes, I’ve sometimes let my goals overcome any sense of modern morality. But you’ve seen the Forgotten. You know they were my own experiments, in my early days of testing the limits of immortality.”

King frowned again, thinking of the shriveled, hideous creatures that were once normal men.

“But I also take care of them now. I protect them. They are directionless, and if left to their own devices, they might just die, Jack. I would hope that caretaking alone might count for something with you, to show I’m not a monster. I’ve aided you against Richard Ridley. Hell, I believe we saved the world together. And I have helped you to keep your daughter, Fiona, alive, along with several other last speakers of languages all around the world. The Herculean Society has a membership of thousands — many of whom are being helped more by the Society than they help me. So when I tell you what I’ve been working on for hundreds of years, I hope that you will see I am being sincere.”

“Okay,” King said. “Surprise me. What’s your motivation?”

“Love,” Alexander said, his face completely serious.

King was flabbergasted. It was the last response he ever would have expected.

“What?”

“Listen, Jack. I’m not trying to rip open a portal to another dimension. You can relax. I’ve retooled this machinery, so it works properly now. But I need your help to make the machine work…and get me home. That’s really all I’ve ever wanted. The machine is perfectly safe now.”

King shifted the strap of the AK-47 across his chest and stared at the man.

“The machine is ready. Like I said, I wasn’t expecting you for weeks yet, but I finished work on the device early. It will open a portal to another place. A dangerous place. And… I will need your help there.” Alexander raised his hand and flipped a switch on the terminal behind him. The arch of metal and electrical cables hummed, and a field of blue light crackled to life in the circular center of the arch. King felt the hair on his arm stand up, as the electrical field tugged at him. He realized the arch was just large enough to be a man-sized portal, but the last time he had seen a portal like this, he’d seen creatures just larger than a man come through. And even larger creatures waited on the other side.

“Turn it off.” King said, hand on the grip of his gun. “I haven’t said whether I’m helping you yet.”

The chime of a phone drowned out the hum of the machine. Alexander drew the small device from his pocket and looked at the screen. He held his index finger up, indicating that King should wait, and then he took the call.

King almost shot Alexander out of sheer annoyance, but controlled himself and decided to listen to the one-sided conversation instead, hoping to glean a hint of what was going on.

“She’s on?” Alexander asked whoever was on the other end. “Connect us.” He gave King a slight grin. “Hello? Yes, please hold.”

Alexander took the phone away from his ear and held it out to King. “For you.”

King squinted, but took the phone. “Hello?”

“Dad?”

“Fiona?” His eyes went from confused to enraged. If Alexander had taken her again, he would kill the man or die trying.

“Why did you call?”

“I called you?”

“Umm, that’s what they told me.” She sounded more confused than afraid. In fact, there wasn’t a trace of fear in her voice. She’s still at school, he realized.

“I just…wanted to see how you were doing,” he said. He knew how she was doing. She had armed guards keeping tabs on her, guards who reported in every night, even if she didn’t.

She laughed, and the sound of it made him miss her more than usual. “I’m fine. A little bored, but I think that’s normal for someone who’s done the things we do.”

The things we do.

King smiled, nearly forgetting about Alexander. Fiona had survived Richard Ridley’s attack on the Siletz reservation that killed her family — her people. She’d been taken by Alexander and subsequently kidnapped and held hostage by Richard Ridley. She’d used the mother tongue to defeat a towering stone golem, saved the entire team and finally, had nearly been sucked inside a black hole, once again proving instrumental in saving his life…and the world. She would one day make a fine addition to the team. She might even be the best of them. But right now…right now she was still a kid.

His kid.

Then he remembered. “Actually, I have some news, but I want to tell you in person.”

“So you just called to torture me then?” she said. “Tell me, now. Or I’ll flunk out on purpose.”

King turned away from Alexander. This was a private moment. He squinted against the glow of the activated machine. I’ll deal with you in a moment, he thought, and then said. “How would you feel about having a mom?”

“Oh my God…” Fiona was quiet for a moment. “Oh my God! You asked her!”

“I did.”

“She said yes?”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Well, you know. All the bullets and explosions and monsters and—”

“We talked about that.”

“So, who’s retiring?”

“What?” King felt rattled. Even his teenage daughter could see that marriage for him would be tricky. Perhaps trickier than having a daughter.

“We’ll talk when I get home, okay?”

“And that will be?”

That was always the question. When. He’d been on the road so much, searching for his parents, that he’d seen Fiona far less than he should. She was at a boarding school, sure, but she was just twenty minutes from the base. He should see her more often. He considered telling her that he’d found his parents, but that would bring up a lot of questions he didn’t have answers for yet. And he needed to get them. Now. “I’ll see you in a few days. I promise.”

“You better, ’cause, you know, Knight taught me how to track. I could hunt you down.”

King smiled. “I’ll be there.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too.”

King hung up the phone. His smile faded. Turned into a frown. He turned slowly toward Alexander. “Why?”

“Because I’m merciful,” Alexander said. “It was a gift.”

“A gift?”

“The chance to say goodbye.”

King glanced at the field of energy just a foot away from him. “I’m not going anywhere.” He turned back to look at Alexander. The big man was rushing him.. There was no time to get the pistol up. No time to react.

Asya opened the door to the cavernous lab just in time to see Alexander tackle King, and just in time to hear King shout out “No!”

Both men were instantly locked in a grappling embrace as their bodies slammed into a circular wall of crackling blue energy. When they hit the blue light, the wall pulsed outward into a broad sphere of power, stuttering streaming bolts of lightning shooting out across the room in all directions.

Then the machine, and the blue ball of light that had engulfed the men shrank down to two thirds its normal size, before exploding outward in a tremendous blast that sent Asya flying back through the doorway and across the lounge. Her body crashed into one of the small sofas with such force that she toppled the piece of furniture, her body rolling to the far side of it and coming to rest against a coffee table. The impact of her body on the table was enough to overturn a cup of tea that had gone cold. The liquid spread off the end of the table and poured onto her head.

Peter and Lynn stood from their seats and rushed to their injured daughter as smoke and flame billowed out of the doorway to the cavern. A huge cloud slid across the ceiling of the lounge.

“What happened?” Peter asked Asya, cradling her bleeding head.

“I…” Asya started. She sat up and her mother helped her. Asya looked back at the dark gray smoke coming out of the doorway.

She started to stand up, and Peter stopped her. “Are you okay?”

“I am fine,” she said and struggled to her feet, with her parents helping her on both sides. She had knocked her head slightly, but otherwise she was alright.

“It was Alexander,” she told them. “He and King…they fought again. They crashed into the machine.”

“Jack’s in there?” Peter was about to turn and run into the cavern. Asya grabbed him by his sleeve.

“You don’t understand. The machine exploded…with them inside.” Asya turned to look at her mother’s already tearing eyes. Then she turned back to her father. His face was suddenly drawn, and long. His eyes filled with shock and understanding.

“Jack is dead.”