The Jerusalem Creed: A Sean Wyatt Thriller (2 page)

Outside the royal stables, Lamesh and Daniel readied the horses Tovar had arranged. The ponies were small and milk chocolate brown in color, likely a breed that came from the eastern lands. They slung saddles over the animals’ backs and fastened the buckles. They both knew it was highly unlikely that they would ever meet again. For the first few minutes, neither said anything. Finally, having packed his satchel and made sure the pouch in his pocket was secure, Daniel spoke up.

“Ride safely,” he said, putting his hand out to the other.

Lamesh turned around and clasped Daniel’s forearm. “You as well, Brother. I do not envy your task. You must always keep vigilant. In a few days, my burden will be lifted.”

Daniel smiled and looked down at the ground. “I will survive it. The king has found favor in me and my friends. It can only be the will of God that makes it so and preserves us in the enemy’s house.”

“I pray it is His will that we survive the night,” Lamesh grinned. His eyes drifted off to nowhere in particular.

“Well,” Daniel said. “It’s time. Good luck.”

He stepped into the strap on the horse’s left flank and swung his leg over the saddle.

Lamesh copied the maneuver. “You as well.” He took off at a slow trot and picked up speed, staying just below a gallop as he weaved his way through the vacant streets. Daniel clicked his tongue, and the horse turned left and headed in the opposite direction.

Thirty minutes later, Daniel left the walls of Jerusalem and let his mount run a little more freely as the animal sprinted into the valley and up to the ensuing hills. The wind smelled good as it washed over him, whipping his robes, belt, and headpiece. He wondered how Lamesh was faring. He’d already be beyond the city walls as well, streaking toward the east and whatever dangers it posed.

He slowed his horse as he approached the Babylonian front lines. Even though he was an emissary of the king and one of his most trusted advisors, Daniel knew that he wasn’t a favorite among many. Some of the pagan king’s priests detested Daniel because he’d been able to interpret the king’s dreams when the others could not. For a Jew to rise to power so quickly in Babylon was something that caused quite a stir. That stir could easily spill to a well-bribed archer on the front lines. It would be easy to say that he fired his arrow because he thought an assassin was approaching.

Daniel shook the thoughts from his head and raised his hand that held a circular golden disk, signaling he was friend and not foe. The disk was a pass from the king that would open doors all throughout Babylonian domains.

“I return with a message for the great king,” he said as he stopped the horse next to a few of the perimeter guards.

They motioned him through without a second thought. Daniel had seen them before, earlier in the day. Soon, they would be replaced by the night patrol.

Daniel guided his mount through the rows of tents, fires, cooking areas, and horse ties until he arrived at a massive, circular tent. Two guards in glimmering armor stood on either side of the entrance. A thin finger of smoke wafted up from the vent shaft in the center of the roof and then instantly blew away. A trailing banner flapped in the breeze, occasionally hanging limp as the wind died.

“Belteshazzar to see the king,” he said, dismounting. He held out the reins to a squire standing nearby. The boy took the leather straps and led the horse to the other side of the thoroughfare where a hitching post was sticking out of the ground.

He announced himself by the Babylonian name the king had given him. No one in the courts knew him as Daniel, with the exception of his three friends.

The guards parted and the one on the right pulled back the tent’s entrance. They both knew who Belteshazzar was. The introduction was merely a formality.

When Daniel passed through the door, he halted at the sight of the king and bowed low, remaining on his feet.

Nebuchadnezzar was seated on a lounge made of fur. Scantily clad women were on either side of him, ready to obey his command at a moment’s notice. He was eating a piece of bread and sipping wine from a golden chalice as Daniel entered. He stopped in the middle of chewing to motion for his adviser to enter.

The king propped himself up straight to greet the young Hebrew. His thick beard ran down to the base of his neck. He was adorned in greenish/yellow robes, a purple sash that ran across his broad chest, and a ceremonial battlefield crown that his father had passed down. Every Babylonian king in the tents of war had worn it. While his face was stern, Nebuchadnezzar always felt comforted when Daniel was around. He’d never had a foreigner in his court that he trusted more than his young Hebrew captive.

“What news have you, Belteshazzar? What does your priest believe the foolish king Jehoiakim will do?”

Daniel drew in a slow breath and after a few seconds of thought, shook his head. “The king will never surrender, your excellence. You will have to break through the gates first. When you do, he will crumble in your hands like a dry piece of dirt. Then you will have peace in the land of Israel.”

The king nodded, appreciative of the information. He waved for the women to leave the room, as well as his interior guards. The latter glanced at each other questioningly, wondering if they should leave their king alone or not. “Go,” he ordered more firmly, wiping away any doubts they had.

When the last person left the room, Daniel stood alone with the most powerful man in the world. Nebuchadnezzar stood up and towered over the younger man. In spite of his physical prowess, it was Daniel’s presence that dominated the tent.

“Belteshazzar, were you able to see anything of interest in the temple?” The king put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder, staring through his eyes.

“There are many treasures and holy items in the temple, my liege. As your friend, I advise you not to take things that have been consecrated by the one true God. However, I understand you feel that you should because of Jehoiakim’s betrayal.”

Nebuchadnezzar considered the words carefully. “I am sorry, my young friend, but your people must be punished. If other people see I am weak with yours, there will be uprisings everywhere. My justice will be swiftly dealt.”

Daniel could tell that wasn’t the only thing the king wanted to know. He waited for a moment, but the king obviously expected his adviser to give up the goods.

“There is no sign of the objects you seek, sire. They have been removed from the temple. You will not find the stones or the breastplate in Jerusalem.” Daniel didn’t lie, but he didn’t exactly tell the whole truth.

Nebuchadnezzar studied his eyes for what seemed like ten minutes. When he spoke, there was malice in his tone. It was sterile, lifeless.

“We will keep looking. If your high priest tried to hide them, it will only be a matter of time. For now, return to your tent. We attack the city at dawn. You will watch the battle from the hill with me.”

Daniel blinked rapidly and then nodded. The king had no idea that within a few inches, and behind a garb of linen, was half of the treasure he so desperately sought. “Yes, your majesty.”

Atlanta, Georgia

Sean’s eyes wearily opened like slow, automatic window blinds; the room filled with blurry points of light. As his vision began to steady, he saw that he was lying on the tile of his kitchen floor. Most of the lights were out except for a row of three hanging bulbs in silver, conical casing over the kitchen island.

The back of his head throbbed like a slow-pounding heartbeat. He winced as he reached for the back of his skull to check the source of the pain. Underneath his thick blond hair, his head was significantly swollen, but when he examined his fingers, he was relieved to find no blood.

He tried to push himself up from the floor, but his body was overwhelmed with fatigue, and his muscles protested in response to his mind’s command. He slumped back down on the floor for a moment. It almost felt comfortable, if it weren’t for the cold surface against his strong cheek.

His brain struggled in the fog. What happened? Why was he on the floor? Why was he so tired? And why did his head hurt?

He directed his eyes to the nearby island. Two wooden stools, stained a dark brown, were tucked in under the countertop. The lights above it dangled like fireflies whose tails remained on. He must have passed out and hit his head. That had to be it. But what would have caused him to faint? And why would he feel so absolutely exhausted?

Sean pushed his body up again and over onto his side. He stayed in good shape, working out several times a week. Most recently he’d taken up interval training and working out in short circuits in the weight room. Now, though, his body felt like it had a skyscraper strapped to it. The room spun around, but he grabbed ahold of one of the stool’s lower rungs and kept his balance. Somehow, he managed to struggle up to a sitting position and leaned against the side of the kitchen island. He drew in long, deep breaths as if he’d just sprinted a hundred yards. As he sucked in air through his lungs, he smelled something foreign. The years of training and work for the government took root again, as they’d done for him time and time again, instantly heightening his senses.

He looked around and saw that the room had been splattered with an orange gelatinous substance. His eyes wandered across the space until they came to a stop on a little cardboard box sitting against the wall. It was smaller than a box for a pair of earrings, a tiny wire protruding from the top.

His mind snapped to full alert. It was a bomb.

He grabbed the lip of the island countertop and pulled himself up, his legs wobbling like a newborn foal. They quickly regained their balance and strength. Instinctively, he made a move toward the box, but a little red LED light on the top flashed once. In the next instant, the bomb erupted in a bright, yellow-and-orange flash. Sean jumped back, expecting a bigger concussion blast or some shrapnel. He quickly discovered that the device was not meant for that. It was an incendiary explosive designed to ignite combustibles.

The bomb’s flames touched the orange goo, and fire ripped through the entire kitchen in mere seconds, encircling Sean and quickly spreading toward him. Black and gray smoke swirled around, rising into the air to gather at the ceiling before rapidly sinking downward; Sean’s kitchen was now more like an upside-down bathtub filling with dirty water.

He was standing in the middle of an eight-foot circle of burning death. If he tried to jump through, he would land in the middle of the flames, the fire so intense that his clothes and skin would be fried instantly.

He shielded his face from the searing heat for a second and thought hard. Suddenly, Sean remembered what he kept stored inside the kitchen island. Salvation was right behind him, but the doors were on the other side near the sink, and that area was already engulfed.

The flames crept closer, encroaching into his circle of safety every second. He grabbed one of the stools and swung it back. He brought it forward, smashing the seat into the back of the island cabinet. The stool’s solid construction held, but the back of the island gave way a little. Sean repeated the move, this time almost completely removing the cabinet’s back panel. Another quick strike knocked it free, and he could see the object he needed just inside.

He reached in, grabbed the red fire extinguisher with his right hand, and yanked it out.  That end of the kitchen opened up into a three-sided eating space, with a six-person dark wooden dining table. There was no way Sean could make it back through the house and out one of the doors. From his vantage point, he could see the fire had already spread into the next room and was probably on a rampage through his entire home.

His only chance for escape was out one of the windows. Aiming the nozzle at the flames closest to the dining room windows, he pulled the safety pin and squeezed the clasp trigger.

A cloudy white jet burst out of the extinguisher. Sean moved the nozzle side to side to clear a path wide enough for him to walk through without getting burned. He kept low to keep from inhaling the smoke and to make sure he smothered the flames close to the floor. The napalm-like substance sizzled as he muted the heat source, and he pressed to the back of the kitchen across the now-blackened tile. Behind him, the path he’d cleared started to reignite. He would have only seconds before he was standing in a lake of fire.

A foot from the closest window, the extinguisher gave the last of its life-saving cloud. Sean took the metal cylinder and smashed through the window that was framed on both sides by white-hot flames. The wood and glass gave way, already weakened by the heat, and shattered outward into the tall junipers that surrounded the home. He leaped through the opening, still jagged with broken glass and splintered wood.

A piece of stray glass cut the side of his forearm as he flew through, but he landed safely in the folds of the evergreen bush. His lungs flooded with the fresh evening air. The clean oxygen hit his lungs, and he coughed, his body realizing how much smoke he’d actually inhaled. He made himself get up again and move as quickly as possible away from the inferno. His legs started moving on their own, taking him down and around to the lower side of the house where the garage was located almost underground. He stopped at the far left of six garage doors where a keypad was imbedded in the wall. He keyed in four numbers and hit enter.

He snatched a set of keys from a board containing more than twenty key chains, all with different keys attached. He grabbed a helmet from a workbench and strapped it on as he hurried over to his Triumph T1oo special edition cafe racer. He had faster bikes, but top-end speed wasn’t what he was looking for. The current situation required a little more maneuverability and agility on the tight streets of North Atlanta.

Sean hopped on the bike and slid the key into the oddly placed ignition near the front forks. He turned the switch and hit the button that started up the throaty motor. His right hand twisted the throttle as he released the clutch, and the bike lurched forward, shooting out of the garage. He wound his way down the path in the back that led to the secret entrance to his property. In a side mirror, he saw the flames lashing out of his first- and second-story windows. The dark smoke looked paler against the hazy black backdrop of the sky.

He reached the rear gate and hit the remote he’d affixed to the handlebars of all his bikes. The gate slowly rolled open, allowing him to keep rolling through it and out onto the street beyond. He stopped by the sidewalk as the gate automatically closed. Tall shrubs and hedges rolled on a track with the gate, effectively concealing it as an entryway and giving it the appearance of just another piece of the fence surrounding the property.

Sean gazed up at the top of the hill. His home continued to billow smoke into the air. The familiar sound of sirens blared in the distance. His alarm would have gone off, alerting the local authorities of the blaze. By the time they arrived, there would be nothing left. Truthfully, he didn’t keep many sentimental things in his home except for his motorcycles. A small piece of him said a silent prayer that the bikes would be okay. But he didn’t linger on that thought.

His mind shifted to the aching bump on the back of his head. Someone had drugged him. The memory started coming back to him. There’d been a knock at the door, which was strange because he hadn’t rung anyone through the main gate. When he looked through the window to see who was there, secretly hoping Adriana had surprised him with a visit, someone had wrapped their arms around him from behind and shoved a rag into his face.

Chloroform was old school. It was rare to even see the stuff anymore, but sometimes the best techniques were the old ones. In the struggle, something or someone had hit him in the back of the head. He remembered trying to fight off the faceless arms and hands when everything suddenly went black.

He wasn’t entirely sure, but it seemed as if he’d heard voices speaking Arabic. Or was it Farsi?

Sean winced as the pulsing pain continued through his skull.

Arabic? Why would they be speaking Arabic?

He processed the question and twisted the throttle again. Images of what had transpired in his house flooded Sean’s mind. His brain recalled one particular image from his fight against the unseen foe. On the inside of the attacker’s wrist was a tattoo, a triangle with a dot in the center. He’d never seen one like it before. If he ever saw it again, his plan was to make sure the person the wrist was attached to didn’t survive the second encounter.

He steered the motorcycle around a row of cars and at the next stoplight made a left, driving away from his burning home. There was nothing he could do; it would be destroyed. Sean wasn’t concerned about that. He was more worried about what the men who’d come after him were going to do next. The bike cut around the protruding manhole covers and sped down the road toward Virginia Highlands.

There could be only one explanation for the sudden attempt on his life. Someone knew about the project he and Tommy were about to undertake. And if whoever
they
were, were willing to kill him, there was no doubt in Sean’s mind that they would go after Tommy next. He hammered down on the accelerator and zoomed through a yellow light just as it turned red. The wind whooshed through the cracks of his full-face helmet, causing a whistling sound he’d grown accustomed to over the years.

If he made most of the lights, his friend’s home was less than twenty minutes away. Sean wasn’t sure whether or not that would be enough time, but he had to try. Better to be wrong and early than right and late.