True Believers (2 page)

Dumbasses.

Doc shuffled his feet, his meaty hand rubbing the gray porcupine whiskers on his chin. He was the foremost American expert on ancient Middle Eastern languages, but Rachel could tell he was stuck. The man was stalling, waiting for her to help him out.

“You can see by the depth of this inscription that the artist was an expert carver. Notice how smooth the curvilinear aspects on these marks present themselves.” Doc waved his hands like a drunkard at the Philharmonic. His voice got louder too. The man didn't have a clue to the translation.

Paul huffed at him. “Yeah, fine. What does it say?”

“Well.” Doc muttered something indiscernible. “This is the word for
watcher
and over here,” he said, pointing at the far end, “is the word for
faithful.”

“And?” Paul cornered Doc, interrogating him as if he were on trial.

Doc rubbed the sweat from his brow. “It's not that easy. Some of the glyphs may have more than one meaning. I'll need time to study them further.” He turned to Rachel. “Maybe our esteemed leader has some thoughts on this. You didn't by chance run into Sumerian glyphs on any of your Egyptian field trips, did you, Ms. Cruz?”

His sonorous contempt for her etched every word, but it was the curling lip that really ticked Rachel off. He looked like an old cur in bifocals, defending a rotting piece of meat.

Rachel had ignored Doc's veiled barbs throughout the expedition, but they were getting tiresome. He was a vain old man with a marketing agenda. She wouldn't have brought him along if she'd known he was going to be this big of a pain in the ass.

She pulled out her translation notebook and shoved it against Doc's protruding belly. He needed a reminder on who ran this posse.

“We hired you to translate, Doc. If this job is too difficult for you we can find someone else.” Rachel stomped off.
Jackass!

Doc had been yapping about his upcoming lecture circuit throughout the entire expedition. What she offered him was marketing gold. The least he could do was show some gratitude and less lip.

Doc trailed in her wake. “Ms. Cruz, I've been a scholar longer than you've been alive. I deserve more respect.”

She snapped around and pointed a finger at him. “That's Dr. Cruz to you, Doc. Remember that you work for me.”

Paul diffused the tension by hooking her by the arm and flipping off her canvas hat, disarming her with a boyish grin. “Who said digs are boring, huh, Cruz?”

She inhaled the warm scent of his body and forced herself to pull away. The man was more temptation than she needed right now. It wouldn't take much to push her over the edge. It had been three years since she'd been intimate with anyone, a very long three years.

She glanced up at her father, now hovering over Paul.

Gilgamesh blew her a kiss, mimicking Paul's overtures. “He's a handsome stud. I can't believe you haven't taken him to your bed. What are you waiting for?”

Rachel lifted a thumb and shook it in the direction of the exit, urging her father to leave—now. He ignored her, and his dismissal forced her to give up, knowing she'd look foolish in front of two men who could neither see, nor hear him. Besides, Gilgamesh knew damn well why she wasn't bedding Paul.

Unlike most humans she knew, she liked Paul. That's why she refused to have sex with him. The price of lovemaking with a Nephilim was costly to a mortal. It stole pieces of their souls, damaging them in ways they couldn't comprehend. And she didn't want to hurt anyone—not again.

But her self-imposed celibacy cost her too. It made her cranky. And there was nothing worse than a cranky immortal, especially with her heat cycle nearing its zenith.

Paul's scent wafted to her nostrils, and she breathed deeply. She imagined him an attentive lover. All the more pity.

Why did her body have to come into heat now?

Paul turned her around to face the glyph and pressed her against his chest with a protective arm. He whispered into her hair. “So what do you think, boss? Can you decipher it?”

Doc glared at her above the rims of his dust-covered spectacles.
The old fossil.
She had every right to show him up. He'd been a thorn in her side during the whole expedition.

Outside, the resonant boom of low-flying helicopters popped against the canyon walls. The rumbling vibrations shook the dust off every surface, including Doc's tangled mess of a beard.

Doc was a relic, like these glyphs, and as intractable as stone.

Rachel shook her head and turned away. They didn't need an altercation here. He was an old man locked in the past, and they were all tired of roughing it in this desolate desert. “I'm sorry. I'm not familiar with these symbols.”

Gilgamesh glided in front of them, Paul and Doc still oblivious to his presence. “Oh, tell them, Rachel. Look at those eager faces, so hungry for knowledge.”

Rachel's face flushed with rage. “Gilgamesh!”

“What?” Doc sputtered, pushing Paul out of his way. “Where do you see that? Where does it say,
Gilgamesh?”

Her head hung down, and she muttered under her breath.
Damn you, Gilgamesh!
He was always pulling this crap.

Her father snorted a laugh before it strangled to a halt. “Someone's coming.” He nodded toward the mouth of the cave then vanished into the rock.

Rachel turned around just as the cave entrance erupted with soldiers. Men dressed in desert cami swarmed around them like spiders, their weapons ratcheting in unison. The first wave slammed Rachel and her team against the cold smooth rock. The second wave fanned out throughout the cave, echoing the all-clear.

Paul remained calm, looking more annoyed than upset, but Doc sucked in air like a Hoover. The old man had trouble breathing at this altitude, and the shock of several rifle barrels in his face didn't help.

Rachel held his hand and squeezed it, steadying his nerves. His breathing slowed, but she could still feel his pulse race.

Three more men entered in a huddle behind the soldiers. They were an odd-looking group, in long cobalt blue coats that slapped the back of their legs as they walked. Their costumes made them look like dandies out of a Victorian novel, with their high-button collars and a flourish of lace that peeked from inside their velvet coat sleeves.

Dandies. In the desert.

Their faces were smooth and caramel, with long aquiline noses and haughty expressions. All of them wore long hair, but only one had it decorated with a braid and a gaudy red gem.

All three wore dark sunglasses, but nothing seemed to escape their notice as they scanned the cavern with the diligence of a sweeper team. One of them carried a tiny device that clicked like a Geiger counter.

The tallest one, with the flashy braid and self-important air, directed the others. He stole a glance at Rachel's team before dismissing them as unimportant. His attention returned to the young man carrying the clicking device.

The machine rattled faster the nearer it got to Gilgamesh's location. Rachel held her breath. Her father had receded into the rock face when the soldiers entered, but he was still here.

Gilgamesh materialized over the strangers' heads for only a moment, winking at Rachel with a rascal's grin before vanishing entirely.

Thanks.

Not that she expected him to do anything. Even Gilgamesh knew enough to keep his identity hidden. The Nephilim had been mostly forgotten, but they were still unwelcomed.

Fancy Braid's posture stiffened into stone. He threw off his glasses, and his gaze traveled upward, studying the cave's ceiling with startled curiosity. He snatched the clicking device from his companion and waved it high above him. Slowly, as if he knew he was being watched, he turned in Rachel's direction.

Rachel's heart raced like a runaway train. Her mouth dropped when the stranger locked her in his gaze. He showed every indication he had seen Gilgamesh in his ethereal state.
Impossible.

The device started clicking again, and the stranger marched toward her with renewed interest. Rachel looked left and right. Was that little machine clicking at her?

She swallowed a lump in her throat as she watched this big man walk toward her. Not walk. Strut. With all the arrogance of a king. Who was this guy? He had a scowl that could shred flesh. It was as if she was smack in the way of something more important to him.

A balding older man in starched khakis interrupted his course and beckoned him back to the petroglyph. The stranger hesitated, his dense glare probing her for answers, but he grudgingly complied and returned to his comrades.

The dandies gibbered among themselves when the clicking device stuttered to silence. They stared at one another in dumb astonishment before everyone started talking at once, fidgeting with machines and pointing to a rocky crag in the ceiling.

Rachel rolled some of their words in her head. The language seemed strangely familiar, though she couldn't understand a word of it. She eyed the strangers with dread. There was more to these men than they let on.

A short Hispanic soldier, lean and sculpted to military perfection, barked orders to the troops to fan out, then marched over to the older man and his foreign-looking companions. He whispered to them with polite deference, pointing at Rachel and her team with an accusing finger.

Whoever they were, they weren't happy at finding a field crew on their turf. The cave swarmed with soldiers, all of them big hulking brutes with permanent scowls.

She whispered to Doc. “There's something strange about these soldiers.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them. None of them are wearing insignia.”

“Black ops,” Paul murmured. “Regular military are required to wear rank and a name patch. These guys have to be black ops, and if that's true, we're way in over our heads.”

"What about Fancy Braid and his friends?" Rachel tilted her chin toward the strangers.

Paul shrugged. "No idea. But they seem to be calling the shots here."

Rachel reached into a pocket to pull out their credentials, but every weapon ratcheted toward her at once, the black barrels of their rifles inches from her face. She pulled her hands up in slow surrender. “Relax, fellas. Just want to show you our papers.”

The Hispanic officer growled at her, shoving past soldiers who towered over him like boulders. “You people are in a restricted area, and my men are under orders to shoot trespassers.”

“Now hold on there,” Paul said, his voice raised.

Without hesitation, three Marines closest to him leveled their rifles at him in unison. Paul's jaw tightened then relaxed in forced submission. The rifles spoke louder than words.

Rachel snapped her fingers at the commanding officer. “Look, Captain—”

“Colonel.” He corrected her. “I am Colonel Chavez.”

“Well, whoever you are, I'm telling you we have clearance to be here. My team is here on a university grant. We have permission from the Department of the Interior to study these petroglyphs.”

“But you don't have
my
permission, lady.” A hint of a Mexican accent blurred his consonants. “And I'm telling you, you're trespassing.” Chavez leaned into her, his hot breath sour against her face. “You have thirty seconds to vacate this area.” His upper lip curled to a wavy sneer. “Starting now.”

Two of Chavez's gorillas dragged them out of the cave, throwing their gear and backpacks after them. “Get moving.” The first soldier grunted.

Rachel tried to look back, but all she saw was a wall of flesh barring her return.

Paul picked up each pack, throwing one to Doc and shouldering another. He grabbed the third pack with one hand and seized Rachel by the arm with the other one. Rachel didn't resist. It was hard to argue with automatic weapons, and there were too many of them.

Rachel's team was forced to follow a foot trail heading for the gorge. When they finally lost sight of the ground forces, Paul pulled out their radio and tried to send out a distress call, but all he got back was static. He grunted in irritation. “Well, that's inconvenient.”

“The park rangers know we're out here,” Doc wheezed back, exhausted from the frantic hike. “They're bound to send another chopper for us.”

Paul handed Doc a bottle of water. “Yeah, but they'll be sending that chopper to our drop-off site. Twenty bucks says the jarheads won't even tell them they ran us off.”

Rachel spied a trickle of runoff that carved its way past their feet. She looked up at the cliffs surrounding them before meeting Paul's troubled eyes. They had to get off this basin. The rains had been plentiful this season, and the causeways were ripe for a flash flood.

“Paul.”

“I know. We have to get off the riverbed.”

“What riverbed?” Doc demanded.

There was no hiding the stuffy scholar underneath the khakis. Doc was oblivious to the apparent danger. His eyes narrowed into wrinkled slits, scanning the dusty channel they'd traveled.

“The one we're standing in, Doc. We're too deep in this canyon.” She looked up at the clouds in the distance. Thunderclouds. The rains had already started a chain reaction miles away. It was only a matter of time.

“What are we waiting for then? Let's go,” Doc said with anxious haste. Without his books or legion of adoring students, he was out of his element. His Harvard degrees meant nothing out here on the sheer cliffs of the high desert.

Rachel rubbed experienced fingers over the rock wall of the cliff then turned to Paul. “It's composite. There's no telling how stable it'll be if we hammer in our pitons.”

“I don't think we have a choice, hon. It might be miles before we find a trail leading out of here. We gotta climb.”

She nodded. “Agreed. It's worth a shot if we can get out of here faster.”

Doc's face turned ashen. “Now wait a minute. You two may be able to climb, but I can't.”

Paul threw down his pack and slipped on his harness. “There's nothing to it, Doc. It's a pulley system. We'll climb up together.”

Rachel hammered the first piton in place then tugged on it with all her weight. It held. Perhaps the rock face was stable after all. She dragged out a length of rope and started tying knots, her hands working like a loom as she built a harness for Doc. The man had balked at carrying any more equipment, and Rachel in her impatience had allowed him to travel without climbing gear. Now they'd have to make do.