The Circle of Eight (15 page)

It was impressive, but it meant that Dietrich later
would be required to replenish the black powder for the next time his master
deemed it necessary to use.

He thanked God every day that it was a rare occurrence
to visit the basement.

At the end of the large room there stood an ornate
cabinet, its hard oak impossibly old and impossibly solid, the walls on it so
thick that when tapped, there was little if any echo from inside. Dietrich had
never seen it opened, having only admired its craftsmanship when attending to
his duties in the basement.

His master produced a key from his robe he had never
seen before. A previously unnoticed cover was slid aside revealing a keyhole.
His master inserted the key and twisted, a heavy mechanism echoing as what must
be a substantial lock was opened.

Silence.

A door was pulled open revealing a dark hollow inside.
His master reached into the dark and pulled out a cube shaped box that Dietrich
had never seen before, but knew immediately what it was.

“The Catalyst!” he gasped.

His master held the cube out in front of him as he
walked to a table on the right. He gently placed the Catalyst on the empty
table, then stepped back as Dietrich advanced in awe.

“I never thought I would see it in my lifetime,” he
whispered.

“If you are to be my replacement, you will see it many
times. But it will be rare that you have the honor of being its keeper. This is
only the second time I have been given the honor. The Founder is traveling to
the Holy Lands again to seek council with the elders. It is essential that we
determine how the device works so we can unlock its secrets and fulfill our
destinies.”

“May I?” asked Dietrich, his hands tentatively reaching
out for the cube.

“Yes.”

Dietrich’s hands caressed the cube, his fingers tracing
along its smooth edges, his fingertips outlining the strange markings that
adorned its entire surface.

“Is this writing?” he asked.

“Yes, but we’ve been able to translate very little. The
Founder has taken pressings and will be attempting to find someone who knows
the ancient tongue this was written in.”

“How do we know it’s genuine?” asked Dietrich. “I mean,
how do we know it does anything?”

“Because the Founder saw it demonstrated and claimed it
held a great power, a forgotten power, that once unleashed, could shape matter
into all things and control the thoughts of man.”

“How did the Founder come to possess it?”

“He liberated it from heathens during his travels as a
young man through the orient and the Holy Lands.”

“He stole it?”

“Crudely put, but yes.”

“And what is our job while he is gone?”

“To secure it at all costs. There will be extra guards
at the house until the Founder returns.”

“Where? I did not see any.”

“They are about. Inside and out. They will make their
presence known if necessary.” His master stepped forward, retrieving the
Catalyst and returning it to its hiding place. Dietrich watched as the key was
carefully returned to the small pocket on his master’s robe. “And now I think
it is time for bed.”

“Yes, my master.”

Dietrich followed the man up the stairs, his mind racing
with what he had just witnessed.

Virginia Commonwealth University Medical Centre, Richmond, Virginia

Present Day

“The FBI has no clue who these guys are.”

Dawson
looked up as Detective Lewis entered the hospital room. Dawson’s sister was
hooked up to a few machines, her surgery complete with a full recovery expected
and little Jenny was sitting in a corner chair, fast asleep, refusing to leave
her mother’s side.

“Oh my
God, Sylvia!”

Dawson
looked past the detective to see his brother-in-law George appear in the
doorframe then rush toward his wife.

“Is she
going to be okay?” he asked, searching the room for an answer, his eyes
settling on Dawson.

“She’ll
be fine,” replied Dawson. “We just need to let her rest.”

“What
happened?” he asked, holding his wife’s hand and pushing some stray hairs from
her face.

“She was
injured in a car crash and lost a lot of blood.”

“But
she’ll be fine?”

“Yes,
don’t worry, George. She’s tough, she’ll get through this.”

“I don’t
understand, there were police at the house and there was a body being taken
out.” He stopped, then turned to face Dawson. “What the hell are you doing
here? Does this have something to do with you?”

Dawson
nodded slowly, a frown creasing his face.

“I’m
afraid it does. I can’t get into it, it’s classified, but there will be a
twenty-four hour guard placed on all three of you, and as soon as she’s strong
enough, you’ll all be brought back to Bragg until this is over.”

“So this
has to do with”—he lowered his voice, glancing at the detective—“you know,
your, umm, job?”

“Yes.”
Dawson gave him “the eye” and George backed off, returning his attention to Sylvia.

Detective
Lewis cleared his throat.

“I’ve
got two of my best outside the door, plus another two on the floor. Hospital
security has been notified to be extra vigilant as well. According to the
doctor she should be safe to transport tomorrow.”

“Good,”
said Dawson standing. “I’d like you to have a unit escort George and Jenny to
their house so they can pack, then return here. When they’re ready to
transport, call this number”—he handed a card to the detective—“and within an
hour a team will arrive to transport them. Please provide them with an escort
to the airport.”

Lewis
nodded.

“And
these men are yours?”

Dawson
nodded.

Lewis
pursed his lips then put the card in his wallet.

“Listen,
I think I know who and what you are. Officially, I can’t sanction what you did,
unofficially, I think you did a hell of a job and I thank you. The official
report will have to be written up a little differently. Don’t worry about it,
I’ll figure it out and keep your names out of it. I’m thinking a couple of
bystanders got involved then disappeared before we could secure the scene.”

Dawson
smiled as he stepped over to his sister’s bedside.

“I’m
sure you’ll think of something.”

Detective
Lewis left the room, closing the door behind him. Dawson noted the head of a
uniformed officer as he moved in front of the door. Dawson leaned in and gave
his sister a kiss on the forehead, then turned to George.

“I have
to leave, but some of my men will be here tomorrow to pick her up, okay?”

“Where
are you going?”

“To put
an end to this, once and for all.”

He
stepped out into the hall and found Red waiting, a concerned look on his face.

“What’s
up?” asked Dawson.

“You
know that private jet you wanted Thor to look into?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,
it just took off, unauthorized.”

“What?”

“Yeah,
the tower was stonewalling them, delaying them as long as possible, and finally
they just taxied onto the runway and left.”

“What’s
happening now?”

“Nothing.
We could have them intercepted and forced down.”

“No,
that’s too public. Any idea how many are onboard?”

“Apparently
another jet arrived and was met by a vehicle, then immediately departed. Two
people got off that plane, then the same vehicle returned just after our
incident, and three people got aboard the original jet—one looked wounded.”

“So the
cleanup crew came in, removed anybody that could damage them, then left in a
hurry. Where to?”

“Looks
like they’re landing on a private strip in New York.”

“Any
chance we can get there beforehand?”

“Funny
you should ask,” said Red, grinning.

Adirondack Regional Airport, New York

Spock and his team watched as the Bombardier Learjet landed then
taxied toward the tarmac. Prearranged with the tower after some arm twisting
and fake credential flashing, the plane was now holding position awaiting
permission to approach the small terminal as the runway was inspected for
debris seen falling off the plane upon landing.

The idea was Zack “Wings” Hauser’s, their resident
expert in flying anything that could fly. They just hoped it would work on
their target.

“Any pilot worth his salt is going to be concerned if
something fell off his aircraft,” Wings had said.

But this pilot had proven to be someone willing to break
the rules, so they weren’t going to wait too long to test him. Spock looked at Trip
“Mickey” McDonald, his prominent ears tucked behind a bandana today and nodded.
Mickey pulled their airfield maintenance vehicle out of the hanger and toward
the runway. Within moments they were driving from the opposite end. About two
thirds of the way down Mickey directed the vehicle to the left and stopped.
Wings jumped out and pretended to pick something up on the blind side of the
vehicle. He held up the piece of palmed plastic and waved toward the tower.

He jumped back in the vehicle and Mickey gunned it
toward the taxiway the Learjet was idling on. Mickey brought the vehicle to a
stop behind the private jet where there was no way for anybody onboard to see
them, this the ultimate blind spot. Wings and Jagger jumped out, rushing up to
the rear landing gear and under the wings. Mickey moved the vehicle alongside
the plane and stopped, climbing out and making certain he was seen by anybody
who happened to be looking. Spock joined him, making a show of examining the
decoy they had “retrieved” from the runway. Spock saw the pilot looking out the
cockpit window and he gave the man a wave, then pointed at the engine, slicing
his hand across his throat, indicating he wanted the engines cut. The pilot gave
a thumbs up and immediately the engines began to power down. Spock then ducked
under the fuselage as if to inspect the aircraft, instead joining the rest of his
team as they readied their weapons.

The door opened and the steps lowered to the taxiway,
two men in crisp white shirts, captain’s bars on one, quickly descended the
steps. Spock kept his eyes on them as all four of the Delta team pretended to
inspect the landing gear, their weapons hidden from sight.

“What’s going on?” asked the captain as he approached,
his accent a thick German but perfectly understandable.

“We think something fell off your landing gear
assembly,” said Wings. The two men were only feet away when Spock nodded. Mickey
and Jagger whipped around, their MP5K’s raised, the startled men left with
nowhere to run as Spock and Wings rounded the pair, blocking their escape.
Mickey quickly zip tied the two men, covering their mouths with duct tape. A
pat-down revealed each had a Beretta.

“Now, what would a pilot need with this?” asked Spock as
he ejected the clip and any chambered round, tossing the weapons aside. The two
uniformed men were placed against one of the massive tires then their ankles
were bound.

“Let’s go.”

Spock stepped back into view along with Wings, their
bright orange vests indicating their official airport titles, and quickly
climbed the steps, pulling their weapons as they entered the cabin. Spock went
left, clearing the cockpit as Wings took right, his weapon still behind his
back. The cockpit empty, Spock turned and found two men near the rear of the
plane, chatting. They stopped as they finally took notice of the two new
arrivals.

“What the hell do you want?” asked one of them, rising
and reaching for what was certainly a weapon in a shoulder holster.

Spock and Wings raised their weapons, taking aim at both
men. The second man, not yet standing, dropped to his knees, hidden behind his
seat. A MAC 10 appeared over the seatback, firing blindly as the other man
dove.

Wings took him out with two shots to the midriff, Spock
dropping to a knee as the shots went over their heads. He put half a clip from
his MP5K into the seatback, the MAC 10 silenced. They dashed forward as Mickey
and Jagger rushed into the cabin. Spock checked his target and confirmed he had
no pulse. Wings did the same.

“Clear!” called Spock. He pointed at the rear. “Check
the bathrooms and any other compartments.” Mickey and Jagger jumped forward.

“Got a body!” called Mickey. Spock followed the voice to
find Mickey standing outside a small bathroom. Spock poked his head in and
found the body of a man sitting on the lavatory, his shoulder wound not the
cause of death; the bullet through his head apparently more lethal.

“Must be the one she wounded at the house,” he said.

“Clean-up crew, indeed,” muttered Mickey.

Spock stepped back into the cabin. “Sweep for intel,
anything we can use.”

The four began to search the cabin, several briefcases
found in the overhead bins, wallets from the shooters, but not much else.

Until Mickey cursed.

“What?” asked Spock, joining him in the rear, a storage
compartment opened in the galley.

Mickey pointed.

“We’ve got company.”

Spock dropped to a knee and looked.

At the pile of C4 bricks neatly joined together with
detonators, and a countdown timer showing less than five minutes.

“What the hell is this?” asked Wings as he joined them.

“If we hadn’t delayed them, they’d have refueled and
been well over the Atlantic by now. Bomb detonates, no evidence, completely
clean operation.”

“Jesus. Whoever is behind this is ruthless,” said
Mickey.

Spock rose. “Okay, everyone out. Grab the intel, we’ve
got four minutes.”

Suddenly the distinct rattle of gunfire from outside had
them hitting the deck as the fuselage began to take fire, several windows hit,
the bullets tearing into the cabin. Spock scrambled to the door, taking a quick
look and saw a black Lincoln parked less than fifty feet from the plane, four
men spraying weapons fire on them.