Templar's Quest

1

Operation Ghost Warrior, Al-Qanawat, Syria

Present Day, 0342 hours

‘What the … ?’

Stunned by what he’d just discovered hidden inside the thirteenth-century chapel, Master Sergeant Finn McGuire reached for the Maglite secured to the front of his battle cammies. Shining the flashlight, he examined the gold medallion nestled inside a velvet-lined box. It looked like something that might have been worn by an Arabian sultan. Or maybe an iced-out rapper. Unbelievably ornate, it was engraved with images of a sun, a moon and a big-ass star.

Finn carefully lifted the medallion out of the box. Three inches in diameter and attached to a heavy chain made of interlocking gold pieces, he estimated its weight at two pounds. Two very valuable pounds, gold trading at a thousand dollars an ounce.

Momentarily seduced, he tuned out the voice in his head urging him to put the medallion back in the box. Make like he never saw the damned thing and just continue with the mission.

Finn and his Delta Force troopers had infiltrated the Syrian village of Al-Qanawat to retrieve ten vials of contraband smallpox virus before they could be transported out of the country and weaponized. Having searched the chapel for the smallpox cache and come up empty-handed, it suddenly occurred to Finn that more than purloined bio-weapons were sold on the black market.

The thought triggered an uneasy feeling in the pit of his belly. General Robert Cavanaugh had personally classified the SpecOps as ‘sensitive’. Loosely translated, that meant the mission was off the books.

Jesus H.

What did Cavanaugh think Finn’s Delta squad was, his own private gang of tomb raiders? It didn’t take a jeweller at Tiffany’s to know the medallion was worth a small fortune. Seventeen years ago, when he first joined the US Army, he’d taken an oath to defend his country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Commandeering biological weapons fell into that category. Stealing gold trinkets to pad a fat-cat general’s bank account did not.

Angered that he’d been played for a fool, Finn glanced at the black Pathfinder watch strapped to his left wrist. 0343. Two minutes to go before the scheduled helo pick-up. Certain there weren’t any bio-weapons on the premises, he ripped open a Velcro flap and deposited the medallion in his cargo pocket.

Suddenly hearing a muffled footfall, Finn spun on his booted heel. In one smooth, practised motion, he reached for the HK Mark 23 pistol strapped to his right thigh. Ensnared in the beam of his flashlight was a robed Syrian carrying – of all things – a jewelled scimitar. While the other man’s choice of weaponry was odd, the curved blade looked like it could easily cleave Finn in two.

Knowing a gunshot would awaken the somnolent village, Finn shoved the semi-automatic into his holster. He then lowered the flashlight beam from the other man’s face, aiming it, instead, over his heart. The Syrian’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as Finn reached for the sheath secured at the back of his waist.

A second later his fifteen-inch Bowie knife was airborne.

A second after that, the Syrian went down like a felled maple on a Berkshires’ mountainside.

About to retrieve the ivory-handled Bowie knife, Finn stopped in mid-motion, hearing the familiar rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire. Instead, he whipped the Mark 23 out of his holster.

‘We’ve got unfriendlies approaching from the west,’ a disembodied voice announced in his earbud.

‘Call in the team,’ Finn ordered, speaking into the radio mouthpiece attached to the side of his helmet. ‘We need to get to the landing zone on the double-quick.’

Leaving the knife embedded in the Syrian, Finn beat a hasty retreat from the chapel. No sooner did he exit the building than he came under intense fire, the Mark 23 blown clean from his hand.

‘Crap!’ he bellowed, rage and pain coursing through him in equal measure.

The five Delta troopers who made up Finn’s squad – Deuce, Lou-Lou, Dixie, Johnny K and PJ – emerged from the shadows, automatic weapons blazing. Ghost warriors materializing out of thin air. A hundred metres away, the helo touched down in a cloud of dust. Insurgents neutralized, Finn and his men headed for the LZ at a fast trot.

A few moments later, safe onboard the bird, Finn sank to his haunches.

‘Hey, boss, some Syrian sure had it out for – Shit!’ Johnny K suddenly yelled. ‘What happened to your hand? Medic!’

Feeling faint, Finn leaned his head against the hull. As the medic hovered over him, he belatedly realized there was blood everywhere. His hand. His pant legs. The floor of the helo. All of it spurting from the bloody mess that used to be his right index finger. ‘Used to be’ because Finn could see that half of his finger had been blown off, the severed digit gushing blood like a wildcat oil rig.

Jesus H! His trigger finger.

Angrily, he banged his head against the side of the helo.

While they’d let him stay in the army, Finn McGuire knew that he could kiss his Delta Force career goodbye.

And all because of some damned gold medallion.