The Orpheus Legacy

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Their prayers had been answered not by God but Orlando Sooke. After the sea battle and the destruction of the V-22 Osprey, they had returned to their SUVs and made contact with him. He had contacted MI6 Agent Chris Raynes who had in turn made contact with a former US Army Ranger named David LeMeur. Colonel LeMeur got through to an old friend named Ezra Haven. He ran a special ops team called the Raiders from his office in the mysterious Titanfort spy hub in New York City.

The hastily built network had worked. Haven had used Titanfort’s considerable spying resources to pick Kashala up as he sailed east through the Med. After a convoluted journey, presumably designed to throw others off the scent, the Congolese general had boarded a transport helicopter at sea and flown across Turkey to Bursa. Here, they had climbed into trucks and driven north to Istanbul.

The largest city in Europe.

With over fifteen million people, it offered the sort of annihilation Joseph “King” Kashala had desired when he’d talked about scarring the world forever. Visions of Istanbul being vaporized haunted all their thoughts, including those of Sooke, who had managed to round up some more money to expedite their journey back to Turkey in a private, chartered jet.

As a business associate of Eden and a distant player in his Consortium, Sooke’s loyalty should have been beyond question, but the way things were right now, Hawke and the others had nursed their doubts about him. The arrival of the chartered Hawker Beechcraft had seen to that and they had driven to the Santorini Airport as fast as possible.

Security there was tightened after the attack on the Osprey, but their false passports got them through fast enough. The mysterious newcomer had also arranged a safe house via Ezra Haven, and that also brought a certain amount of relief. Somewhere quiet and secure to prepare for the final showdown with Kashala was more than welcome, and they had been promised access to weapons, too.

Now, as they soared east above the Mediterranean on route to Istanbul, Scarlet stretched her legs out, gently reclined her soft leather seat and let a loud, satisfied sigh out into the sumptuous cabin. “Ah, bliss.”

“Happy now?” Ryan asked.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “Now get me a beer.”

“One step ahead of you, Sloane.” He thrust a cold bottle into her hand.

Scarlet opened her eyes in shock as the cold glass pressed against her skin. “Bloody hell! You’re almost house trained.”

He slumped down in the seat beside her and took a long swig of his drink. “Almost, but let’s hope I never make it all the way.”

She raised her bottle to her lips. “I’ll drink to that, boy.”

They chinked bottles and took another swig. For a moment, neither said anything. The only sound above the comforting hum of the jet engines was the gentle chatter of Nikolai, Camacho and Zeke as they played Razz poker at the rear of the cabin. Every now and then, one of them would cheer or groan, and then another hand was dealt out and it happened all over again.

“Surprised you’re not playing,” Ryan said, eyes closed and head pushed back against the soft headrest.

“Not tonight,” she said quietly. “I need to give my eyes a rest.”

“Mine too,” Lea said.

In fact, the Irishwoman never wanted to open her eyes again. Here, in the safety of the jet, she had started to drift away at last. Memories of her life flashed past, but she just kept on going until she reached the part where Hawke walked into it. Without knowing it, she had started to fiddle with the engagement ring on her left hand. She was glad it was there. It made her feel safer about the future.

And think about the past. About when Ryan, her first husband, had proposed to her.

He had told her all about the vena amoris, back in what now seemed like the Triassic period. It meant the vein of love, named by the ancient Romans who believed that a vein ran directly from the ring finger all the way to the heart. It was a beautiful thing to say, and she had accepted his proposal, but then he ruined everything by telling her that in sixteenth century England, women often wore wedding rings on their thumbs. She didn’t know why, but it took the edge off the moment.

Like the rest of the team, she was covered in cuts and bruises and exhausted from fighting the Blood Crew. She couldn’t find one part of her body that didn’t hurt or ache, and when she leaned forward and reached into her bag, the pain got worse. Pulling out some headache tablets, she cursed as she swallowed them down with some water and leaned back in her seat.

Outside the aircraft the seascape was unchanged — a never-ending world of water stretching to every horizon. She considered all the ships that had sunk in this ancient sea, all the naval battles that had unfolded right here on the waves right below their jet.

Today, it was almost devoid of human life, except for a small fishing trawler sailing north to the Greek mainland. In some ways, she thought, life hadn’t changed at all since the days of ancient Greece. Men at sea, bringing the catch home to sell in the markets of their hometowns.

Giving the sparkling sea one last look, she turned back to her friends in the cabin and pushed back in her seat. Some were sleeping, others were scrolling through smart phones; Kamala and Lexi were quietly chatting at the back. Slowly, she felt sleep covering her like a soft, warm blanket.

Beside her, Reaper was also struggling to focus his mind. Earlier, he had caught a glimpse of the photo of his wife and kids in his wallet and now his mind drifted back to them. He and Monique had gone through more ups and downs than a roller coaster, and yet they still kept things together. He loved her, and then there were the kids to think about.

Louis and Leo, his beloved twins.

He thought of them now, playing in the villa back in Provence and a smile appeared on his unshaven face. They weren’t identical but they did share many similarities in appearance and style. Louis was a daredevil, taking after him, he guessed. Always laughing and joking, forever the showman. His younger brother Leo was more serious. Kind-hearted but sensitive, and when he smiled, it lit the world like a sunrise.

Thinking of them now, with their mother safe at home, gave him the power to keep going and never give up. It gave him confidence to know that at least one part of his life was stable and solid, even if his so-called career had been a rag-tag mish-mash of military service and downright dirty mercenary work.

What he did, he did for them, not himself, and if anything ever happened to them, he honestly didn’t know what he would do. He looked at his battered, chipped watch. Monique would be making them something to eat now.

He decided not to call them and disturb their peace, and instead settled back in the leather seat and tried to relax. Crombez’s threat to harm them had cut him deep and if he wanted to keep his family safe, he would have to kill his old mercenary friend.

Beside him, Nikolai couldn’t sleep. His eyes had been shut since they climbed onboard the jet, but his mind was as busy as Danilovsky Market. Usually, when he closed his eyes, he was terrorized with memories of his family’s slaying, but this had started to fade since he had become part of the ECHO team.

Now, he had broken free of the Oracle and the other Athanatoi and his mind was focussed on the mission. Never before had he felt this great sense of purpose and he was grateful to the others for letting him into their world. The burden of proving his loyalty to them weighed heavily on his shoulders, but so far, so good.

And yet, his new sense of belonging had some cracks in the varnish. Deep down, he knew he didn’t belong with these people. He was too different from them. His childhood, his adolescence and his years in the cult had warped him too far away from the normal growth of humanity.

He knew one day he would walk away from them and start another chapter in his life, but where or when, he had no idea. For now, these people were his family and he owed them everything. His profound sense of honor and loyalty meant he could never let them down, and he knew he never would. He would die before betraying them and yet, he had a niggling doubt — would they die before betraying him?

Closing his eyes again, he thought about Istanbul becoming a burning wasteland and fought the images from his mind. He tried to center himself. Something told him the next few hours would be the most dangerous of his life. Slowly, he too, drifted away.

Unlike the others, Hawke had, as usual, been able to get some easy shuteye, but it wasn’t good sleep. Seconds after closing his eyes, he had been snatched from the peace of the passenger jet and thrown into a nightmare landscape of suffering and death.

A smoky battlefield lay ahead of him, and the sounds of Lea’s screams, lost somewhere in the fog of war. Ahead, stood the Oracle, beside him was Nikolai with a Russian Circassian sword in his hand. The blade glinted in the flash of a lightning strike. Behind him, King Kashala and Mukendi laughed with their antimatter cannisters. The white-robed Guardians of the Citadel, and others in red robes, emerging from the caves of hell as the fires burned around him.

Alfredo “Spider” Lazaro was stalking him, gun in hand as he mocked him in his Cuban Spanish. Mocked his failure to find him. Laughed about killing his wife. And now she was there too, Liz, his wife, calling out for help somewhere in the darkness.

Suddenly awake and heart pounding in his chest, he almost called out in terror. Getting a hold of himself, he released his vice-like grip on the armrests and took a few slow breaths to calm himself.

Sooner or later, he would have to face all of these things and strike them down before they killed him. But when and where — that was the question?