The Jerusalem Creed: A Sean Wyatt Thriller (3 page)

Virginia Highlands, Atlanta

Sean’s Triumph screamed the last mile down the quiet borough street. He was fortunate most of the bar hoppers had settled on a location, leaving the roads relatively vacant of pedestrian traffic. The last thing he wanted was to run over someone crossing the road. Fortunately, he’d not had any close encounters and had been free to speed around the slower vehicular traffic as needed. The one police officer he’d seen had been at a stoplight, which luckily Sean had been forced to obey due to the line of three cars in front of him.

He whipped the black British motorcycle into Tommy’s driveway just as he saw a familiar yellowish flash from the living room. Keeping his helmet on, he rushed to the front door and tried the doorknob. The door swung open easily. Sean glanced at the doorframe where it had been splintered from forced entry. He’d run out of his house so quickly to get to his motorcycle, Sean hadn’t even considered grabbing one of his spare firearms from the garage. He kept a small arsenal of weapons in a locker there. Now, as he stepped into Tommy’s house, he wished he’d thought of it.

No time for regrets now. The tiny incendiary device ignited the putrid gel, and Tommy’s living room sparked into flames in an instant. His eyes scanned the room, trying to find his friend. He was nowhere to be seen. Quickly, Sean moved into the hallway that joined with the kitchen and a small breakfast nook in the back. Tommy wasn’t there either. He turned and hurried down the hall to the master bedroom as the flames ran after him along walls, doused in the orange substance.

He kicked open the door and slammed it behind to cut off the fire. That would only keep the blaze at bay for so long. Sean looked around the room and found his friend lying prostrate on the bed off to the side near a window.

“Tommy!” Sean shouted at his friend as he stepped closer to the bed. He could see the same handiwork on the back of his skull that he’d been dealt. A little patch of dried blood mixed with his friend’s curly, dark hair.

Sean reached down and shook his friend. “Tommy. Wake up. We gotta get out of here.”

Tommy grumbled something incoherent, still clearly unconscious from the drugs and the blow to the head. Picture frames cracked in the hall just outside the door, and Sean knew he only had seconds to get the two of them out.

His eyes surveyed the room, and he saw that the walls and hardwood floor had been doused in the flammable gel.

“Not good,” he said to himself.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Sean moved back over to the bed and kneeled down. Grabbing one of Tommy’s arms and the back of his corresponding leg, he hefted his friend’s limp, two-hundred-pound frame over his shoulders. Then he remembered the hallway would be a tunnel of flaming doom.

“Man, you are going to need to drop a few pounds,” Sean grunted, knowing his friend couldn’t hear him.

He set Tommy back down for a second and grabbed a baseball bat that was sitting on the floor, propped up against the side of a chestnut dresser. Sean gripped it with both hands and moved to the backyard-facing window. He bashed the glass, shattering it into hundreds of pieces and sending it flying outward. He continued to chop away at the window frame until there was nothing left that resembled what it had once been. Thankfully, the window sill was only two feet from the floor, so heaving his friend through the opening wouldn’t be as bad as if it were a four-foot-high window.

Something exploded in another part of the house, shaking the entire structure violently. Sean figured it was a gas line, but he had no intention of investigating or sticking around. He grabbed Tommy again and hefted him over his shoulders. His friend was bigger than he was, but he managed. All those nights he spent at the gym were worth their weight in gold at the moment. He staggered over to the window and lowered his friend out, feet first. Holding Tommy around the neck and pinning him to the exterior wall so he wouldn’t fall down, Sean straddled the window sill and climbed down.

Once his feet touched the thick pine mulch below the window, he grabbed Tommy under the armpits and dragged him out into the yard, all the way to the back fence to get as far from the house as possible.

As he backed away, Sean could see the scope of the damage being done to the home. Enormous flames roiled out of the windows. The outer edges of the roof were entirely consumed. Black smoke, like he’d seen at his own home, poured into the night air. Even two hundred feet away, Sean could still feel the searing heat of the flames.

There was another explosion, and the bedroom they’d just escaped erupted in flames. The door must have given way. Once it did, the free oxygen inside was sucked into the fire and gave it an extra breath of life. In a matter of seconds, the blaze flared out of the window Sean had broken.

Once again, the sound of sirens in the distance filled the air. Twice in one night. Any doubts that lingered in Sean’s mind about what was going on were completely eradicated. Someone was trying to kill them. But why?

His thoughts raced as he smacked his friend gently on the cheek. Tommy started to rouse and jerked at the sudden contact to his face. His eyelids lifted like upward flowing molasses, and he rolled around uncontrollably for a few seconds. The words coming out of his mouth were incoherent at first.

“Sean?” The name came out loud and blubbery, like a drunk who’d fallen off a barstool and smashed his lip.

“I’m here, buddy. Everything’s okay.” He held his friend still for a minute until Tommy’s eyes started to focus.

“What’s going on? Is that my house?”

Sean hesitated to answer, but he was going to find out eventually. “Yeah.”

“What the…?” Tommy grabbed the back of his head, reminding Sean of the thumping pain still pounding away at his own skull.

First order of business would be locating some ibuprofen. Sean leaned back against the wooden fence and eased his head against it, taking in a few slow breaths.

“Is my house on fire?” Tommy asked, staring in drug-fogged confusion.

Sean moved his head up and down in an overly deliberate nodding motion.

“Why is my house on fire?”

“If it makes you feel better, so is mine.” He tilted his head and stared over his shoulder at his friend.

“How did we end up in the backyard?”

“I pulled you out of your house.”

Tommy’s eyebrows lowered. That didn’t seem right. “I’m way bigger than you. How’d you get me out?”

“Leverage.”

He seemed to accept the answer and tried to stand up. The fire trucks were getting closer. Tommy wavered for a moment and then plopped back down onto the ground. Sean used the fence to help him get on his feet and then offered a hand to his friend, who still struggled to find his balance.

Sean braced him and started walking around the side of house that had the most clearance between the burning walls and the fenced perimeter.

“Where are we going?” Tommy asked. “I think I want to sit down again.”

“Nope. We need to get out of here.”

More bewilderment washed over Tommy’s face. “What do you mean? Shouldn’t we wait until the police arrive?”

Ordinarily, that would be the correct thing to do. In this case, however, Sean had a bad feeling. Something in his gut said they needed to disappear, and fast. The two staggered into the front yard, and Sean was relieved to see his motorcycle virtually untouched by the blaze. He’d purposely left it far enough from the house just in case something like this happened.

“I’m not riding on the back of that,” Tommy blurted out.

“Well, you’re in no condition to drive it. It’s the only way right now.”

Tommy’s head went back and forth in a dramatic, drunken motion. “Where are we going? And why not wait for the firemen and the cops?”

“We need to get to the IAA building. I’m not sure, but I have a feeling that whoever just tried to kill us might come back. It would be better for us to not stick around.”

Tommy seemed to accept the answer and swung his leg over the back of the bike. The only problem was he was facing the wrong direction.

“Other way, buddy,” Sean said, still helping him.

When he got his friend turned around, Sean hopped on and slid the helmet over his short, messy blond hair. The key was still in the ignition, so all he had to do was hit the button. The Triumph revved to life.

“Do I get a helmet too?” Tommy asked, his speech still fairly slurry.

“Not this time. But I’ll keep one around for you in the future. Just hold on tight.”

Sean sped out of the driveway and down the street just as a giant red fire truck appeared over the hill. A few seconds later, they passed a police car on the same trajectory.

Tommy and Sean had been the best of friends since early on in life. They attended the same high school and kept in contact through college. When Tommy’s parents died suddenly, the Wyatts took him in for a short time. While he appreciated their help, Tommy’s mind and heart were torn apart. He struggled with his emotions for years, even through college. Things changed when he disappeared for a year. He’d told Sean not to try and find him, that it was something he needed to do, something about finding his life’s purpose.

One night, while sitting at a bar in Istanbul, Tommy realized what it was he needed to do. Two days later, he was back in the United States working on the idea that would become his legacy, an agency that served the world by recovering ancient artifacts.

Somewhere in that year abroad, Tommy learned how to fight, though Sean never asked him about it. He’d become a brawler, able to defend himself in a pinch, though still clumsy at times. The two had found themselves back-to-back in more than a few situations. Now, awkwardly, they were back to front.

Sean chuckled at the irony.

The cool evening air sprayed over their skin as Sean steered the motorcycle down the tree-lined streets. One of the things he liked most about Atlanta was how there were still so many trees in spite of the massive city’s population. Tourists had commented on how different it was from cities in the West where all you could see were vast metropolitan areas filled with hundreds of miles of streetlights and homes stretching in all directions. Atlanta wasn’t like that because of the hilly terrain and the fact that the populace preferred to keep nature a more prominent feature.

He thought about this as he twisted the accelerator and sped out of the highlands and into midtown. Posh coffee shops, boutiques, sushi bars, and trendy hangouts blurred by. Sean pointed the single headlight at downtown. His friend kept his arms around him, more tightly than Sean would have liked, but he’d rather Tommy be safe than sorry, especially given his condition.

At the next intersection, the light went yellow and then red, forcing Sean to hit the brakes and bring the bike to a stop. The light was at a four-way stop. A late night cafe was open on the corner a few feet from them. Three gorgeous young women, probably in their midtwenties, stared at the awkward couple on the motorcycle. Tommy, without a helmet, looked especially uncomfortable.

He smiled and nodded at the girls. “It’s not what it looks like,” he tried to explain. The few minutes of fresh air on the bike had seemingly sobered him up. That or being seen riding bitch on the back of a bike with another guy.

Sean twisted his head to the girls, who were giggling in short summer dresses as they sipped their drinks. He flipped up his visor and said, “Yes, it is.” He patted Tommy on the leg to emphasize the statement.

Just then the light turned green, and he hit the gas again before Tommy could try to defend himself.

“Thanks, man!” he shouted over the swooshing wind and throaty engine. “Now they think I’m into dudes.”

“So? You’re never going to see them again.”

“You don’t know that! I could bump into them somewhere.”

Sean laughed and spoke over his shoulder. “Yeah but now if you go back to that place you’ll look like a creep.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. I love that cafe.”

Sean yelled over the noise. “You’re too old for them anyway.”

He weaved around a slow-moving minivan and into the left lane that had just opened up as the road widened on its way into downtown.

“Too old? Those girls were, at most, ten years younger.”

Sean thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. My fault. If I see them again, I’ll be sure to tell them you and I are no longer an item.” He squeezed the throttle harder, increasing their speed, zooming past the Jimmy Carter Center. 

Dubai, UAE

A bluish-gray haze hung in the room. Through the fog of cigar smoke, the sandstone walls and columns appeared to be something out of a thousand-year-old palace. It may as well have been. To say that the mansion’s owner was wealthy would be a vast understatement, like saying the surface of the sun was warm. Mamoud Al Najaar puffed on his cigar as he watched the half-naked women dance in front of him. The doors to the balcony behind them were wide open, and the Persian Gulf beyond provided a unique and expensive backdrop to the view before him.

Another scantily clad woman fanned him as he watched the show. He occasionally took a sip of tea from the silver cup on a table to the right of his Corinthian leather chair. Six feet away, his friend and bodyguard, Sharouf Al Nasir, watched with restrained pleasure.

Mamoud smiled a toothy, perverse grin as the women moved in synchronized rhythm. Their hands flashed back and forth, gripping red silken scarves. The thin, lightweight fabric trailed around behind their bodies, occasionally grazing their bronzed skin.

He’d grown up in the deserts of Syria, a child of privilege and high tastes. When his father sold their familial lands to the oil companies, the money ensured their lifestyle would be one the sheikhs of old would have envied, and without all the worries of drilling, refining, and exporting.

When his father died, Mamoud inherited everything. He was one of two children, but his younger brother had died years before. Mamoud hadn’t understood why his brother joined the insurgency in Iraq, or why he had thought it a good idea to go head to head with an entire platoon of American soldiers.

As children, their father had taught them that the only way to defeat the West was to learn everything they could about Western culture: its people, its way of life, and its weaknesses.

He’d been trained to fight by some of the best martial arts teachers money could buy and still kept up an intense sparring regimen with his bodyguards to make sure he never got rusty. His expertise in Jujitsu and Isshin-Ryu was unrivaled throughout the Middle East.

Mamoud went to school in Great Britain. Not just any school either. He attended the most expensive private prep schools and university. He was steeped in the ways of capitalism, freedom of thought and expression, and in their religious and atheistic learning. The more he learned about those things, the greater his hatred of the West grew. His father had encouraged him to bide his time, to be patient. When the moment was right, he would know what to do with the resources he’d been given.

Know thine enemy.
The quote went through his mind even as he watched the women entangle each other with the scarves, drawing each other seductively close before releasing and going to opposite corners of the room in their constant expand-and-contract dance.

Life, Mamoud had learned, was a dance much like the one his girls were performing. It was a lesson, like so many others, that he’d learned from his father. There was a rhythm, a beat, a melody, a moment of intensity, and then a release.

When the music stopped, he looked at the two girls as they panted for breath, their stomachs and chests heaving for air. They never stopped smiling in spite of the arduous workout. They knew better than to displease Mamoud. His reputation for being cruel and exacting had stretched across the sprawling city of Dubai. No one crossed him. And if there was such a foolish, ignorant soul, their mistake would be short lived, but their pain would not.

He stood up from his throne-like chair and began clapping slowly, the cigar hanging from his lips just past the V-shaped soul patch of hair above his finely trimmed beard. Dark eyes underneath waves of thick black hair pierced through the girls as he stepped deliberately toward them.

“Impressive, ladies,” he said, beckoning them closer to him with open arms.

The girls obeyed and slid their hands around his back in a sultry fashion, snaking them under his armpits and around his waist.

“I want you both to go wait for me in the master bedroom,” he said pointedly, taking out the cigar and pointing toward a lavishly decorated master bedroom through a set of ornately carved double doors. The bedroom was off to the right and featured a white marble balcony providing almost the exact same view as the sitting room. “Feel free to lose those clothes, but keep the scarves. We may need those.”

While Mamoud had been indoctrinated in the conservative, fundamentalist ways of Islam, there were a few things he didn’t take to heart. One was the way that many believed women should remain covered. Another was the principle of chastity. Despite his hatred for the West, these two things seeped their way into his life without much protest on his part. The carnal temptations, he found, were the best. No one dared call him a hypocrite.

The girls giggled, bowed, and hurried off to the bedroom.

When they’d bounded beyond the threshold and started removing the few pieces of clothing they had left, Mamoud motioned for one of his guards to close the doors, apparently wanting secrecy.

He called his right hand, Sharouf, over with a flick of four fingers.

Sharouf obeyed and was by his boss’s side in an instant.

Mamoud put his arm around the man’s shoulders and walked with him out to the balcony. When they reached the white stone, their eyes narrowed, trying to squint out the bright afternoon sun.

Four stories below, several other members of Mamoud’s harem lay topless by the pool. It was what he required of them. His property was closely guarded by an array of palm trees and thick brush, all bounded by a high sandstone wall that stretched to the edge of the beach. The only way in or out of the white sands was through a gate that always remained locked.

The two men stared out at the scene beyond the walls. Turquoise water was intermittently interrupted by the soft, rolling waves of white foam. To the right and to the left of the private property, tourists and Dubai’s elite frolicked in the sea while others lounged in mesh beach chairs.

Mamoud wasn’t thinking about any of that, though. His mind was thousands of miles away. “Is it done?”

“My men said that Wyatt and his friend are both dead.”

“How?”

Sharouf never turned to face his employer, even though Mamoud tilted his head slightly to look indirectly at him. “They were burned to death. My men used a substance that’s similar to napalm but far more difficult to put out. It also spreads twice as fast. The targets were drugged, and their homes set on fire around them. All that is left are charred, unrecognizable corpses.”

Mamoud drew in a long breath and then put the cigar back between his lips. He took a few puffs, letting the smoke escape his mouth and drift away, disappearing instantly in the sea breeze.

“You are certain?”

“You doubt my methods?”

Mamoud was taken aback by the insolence, but he quickly regained his composure, knowing his man meant nothing by it. He was right to say it. Sharouf’s methods were good. Better than good.

“No, my old friend. I simply seek to remove all doubt.”

Sharouf turned his head and peered through Mamoud’s soul. “They are dead. I am sure of it. But my men will linger in the area until the local authorities confirm the deaths. If that is what you wish.”

Mamoud acknowledged it with a dramatic nod. “That will be fine, yes. And I do not doubt your methods.” He felt compelled to reiterate his previous statement. “You are the best at what you do, as are your men. That’s why I pay them.”

He put his hands on the white stone rail and leaned forward, staring out at the scenery. A few miles away, the enormous sail-shaped Burj Al Arab sat precariously in the bay, a strange and miraculous structure that had been built on man-made land. The financial investment that went into creating the opulent hotel had been staggering. It was the first of its kind, a hotel built in the water where no land previously existed. Now, tourists and wealthy visitors flocked to the place. The cheapest room available cost thousands of dollars a night. At one point, the helicopter pad had been converted into a tennis court as a ridiculous publicity stunt. Roger Federer and Andre Agassi had been brought in to play a friendly little game atop the dangerously high area.

Off toward the center of town, the massive Burj Khalifa building towered above all the other tall skyscrapers in the city. It loomed against the skyline like a giant, making all others bow before it.

“Is there anyone else who might know about the artifact?” Mamoud returned his attention to the conversation.

“From what we can tell, Wyatt and his friend were the only other two who knew about it. We haven’t seen any correspondence relating to information on your operation.”

“Good.” He pulled in another puff of smoke from the cigar and released it between his lips. “Has he made any progress?”

Mamoud didn’t need to mention the man by name. Sharouf knew exactly whom he was talking about. The man was the reason all of this had been set in motion, and was why they were talking on the balcony overlooking the Persian Gulf right now.

“He is working day and night to decipher the tablet. He claims that it could take weeks to unlock the meaning of the symbols.”

“Weeks?”

For the first time in their conversation, Sharouf appeared apologetic. “It is a very complex code. The man says it could take a few weeks, but the truth is that he may never be able to solve it. Whoever designed that tablet didn’t want
anyone
solving it.”

“If they didn’t want anyone to solve it, why leave it there to begin with?” Mamoud shot down the theory immediately. He shook his head as he spoke. “No, this tablet is the key to victory for us. It is the lone clue to finding the Jews’ secret. Once we have it in our possession, no one will be able to stop us.”

Sharouf considered his employer’s words. In his heart, he hoped the man was right. Doubts lingered, though. “He believes it is what you think it is?”

“He is one of the foremost experts on the subject. His life has been dedicated to research and study in hopes of finding those two artifacts. It is what led him to the grave he was excavating when he discovered the tablet. He has set things in motion. Now we must coerce him to continue for our benefit.”

“And if he delays or outright refuses?”

“He won’t. He’s too afraid of death.”

“But what if he does?”

“Then convince him.”

Sharouf gazed into Mamoud’s eyes, studying the cold, merciless orbs. He knew what his boss meant. He’d done his fair share of convincing in the few years he’d been in Mamoud’s employ. For all of his money and life of ease, Mamoud was ruthless. Sharouf had seen him do his own dirty work many times in the past. He was unafraid of being the trigger man when the time called for it. A specific instance from eight months ago popped into his head. He’d watched Mamoud butcher one of his guards for fraternizing with one of the girls from his harem.

No one was to touch his possessions. The only one even allowed to look and halfway enjoy the stable full of women was Sharouf, and he remained cautious about it.

When Sharouf spoke again, it was with clinical certainty. “I will make sure he cooperates.”