Black Scorpion

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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For Tom Doherty. Again.

 

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'm back with you faster this time, as Caitlin Strong takes a break to let Michael Tiranno return to center stage. Before we start, though, I need to give some much-deserved shout-outs to those who make all this possible.

Stop me if you've heard this before, but let's start at the top with my publisher Tom Doherty and Forge's associate publisher Linda Quinton, dear friends who publish books “the way they should be published,” to quote my late agent, the legendary Toni Mendez. Paul Stevens, Karen Lovell, Patty Garcia, and especially Natalia Aponte are there for me at every turn. Natalia's a brilliant editor and friend who never ceases to amaze me with her sensitivity and genius. Editing may be a lost art, but not here, and I think you'll enjoy all of my books, including this one, much more as a result.

Some new names to thank this time out, starting with Todd Lyle and Bob Coppedge, tech experts extraordinaire who were able to help me make sense of the villain's typically dastardly plot. It's always a challenge to come up with new means for bad guys to achieve their nefarious ends, but thanks to Todd and Bob, I think we came up with something special, and scary, here. Todd also shared his military special ops expertise with me to help iron out scenes that are so much better thanks to him. Nick Norocea, father of my Brown football mentee Alex, helped me get things right about his native Romania. And I'd be remiss if I didn't salute the creative inspiration and vision of Fabrizio Boccardi, the man who conceived the Tyrant and sweated out each and every page of this one with me to assure you get your money's worth.

Check back at
www.jonlandbooks.com
for updates or to drop me a line. Always love hearing from you. For those who miss Caitlin, rest assured she'll be back next fall in
Strong Light of Day
. But trust me when I tell you that if you haven't met Michael Tiranno before, you're in for a real treat. Had a blast writing his latest adventure and have a sense you'll have just as much fun reading it. As a matter of fact, let's make that a promise. Hey, would I lie to you? Only one way to find out, and that's to turn the page so we can begin.

 

Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.

Abraham Lincoln

 

P
ART
O
NE

BEFORE

 

Though wisdom cannot be gotten for gold, still less can it be gotten without it.

Samuel Butler

 

ONE

N
ORTHERN
I
SRAEL, 950
BC

“They come, oh great King.”

Solomon, weary and weak from going so long without rest, leaned heavily on the shoulder of his son as he emerged from inside his goat-hair tent. Already he and his private guard had fought off two ambushes. Bandits appeared to be to blame, but Solomon suspected otherwise given their weaponry, skill, and the fact that they hadn't fled when confronted.

Now his heart pounded with anticipation, but also with fear, in the night's heat. He was so close now, so close to fulfilling the destiny shaped by his father, the great King David. And that reality filled him with the awesome scope of the responsibility before him, along with the price of failure.

He could not fail. The fate of his kingdom was at stake.

Solomon cast his gaze down the road to see a single wagon kicking up a dust cloud in its wake. Traveling under cover of darkness greatly lessened the threat of a raid by bandits and, in any event, at first sight the wagon seemed to be carrying nothing more than a farmer's crops being taken to the open market in Jerusalem.

Solomon peeled back his beggar's hood to reveal long locks of shiny brown hair and finely etched features that looked chiseled onto his face. He'd just nodded off, dreaming of Jerusalem, imagining the lanterns lighting the city twinkling in the night, when the captain of his private guard alerted him to the wagon's coming.

Solomon eased his hand from the shoulder of his fifteen-year-old son Rehoboam as the wagon drew closer, so the boy wouldn't feel him stiffen. “Keep a keen eye, my son, for our enemies are everywhere.”

“Father?” the boy said, sliding a hand to the knife Solomon had presented him on the occasion of his bar mitzvah. He was small for his age and a bit frail. But, as heir to the kingdom of Israel, he needed to be part of such a vital mission, no matter how perilous.

“They would seek to destroy this symbol of our people and the foundation of our future. With our temple complete, we have safe refuge for it at last.”

The Temple of Solomon had taken nearly eight years to build, requiring men and materials the likes of which had never been seen before in the known world. A staggering two hundred thousand workers had ultimately played a part in its construction, milled from vast quantities of local stone and imported cedar wood. It was a sprawling, palatial structure, perhaps the greatest ever erected—and with good reason, since it would be housing the vast stores of priceless treasures amassed by the Jewish people through time. What Solomon had kept secret from all but his most trusted cadre was the construction of a special chamber within the temple called
Kodesh Hakodashim
, or Holy of Holies. This would house the ark of the covenant, containing the remains of the stone tablets that held the actual Ten Commandments, along with the contents carried in the rear of the simple farmer's wagon approaching now.

It drew close enough to reveal the snorting of the horses and pounding of their hooves atop the roadbed that was dry and cracking from the long drought Solomon took for God's impatience. And, as if to reinforce that belief, he felt the first trickle of raindrops and took this as a good omen, until thunder rumbled in the distance and it became something much different.

A warning.

“Benaiah!” he called to his most trusted advisor, the wagon slowing to a halt before his party now. “Deploy the—”

Too late! Solomon realized, as arrows split the night, taking down two of his guards. The cloaked figures, dark everywhere with scarves pulled over their faces, rushed them from both sides of the road at once, shrieking and bellowing with swords drawn. More arrows split the air, scattering Solomon's outnumbered forces.

Until two dozen riders broke from the cover of darkness and surged onto the scene. The attacking forces hesitated just long enough for Solomon, Benaiah, and the members of the king's private guard to whip out their swords, seizing the offensive.

“The tent!” he ordered Rehoboam, shoving the boy that way.

Rehoboam stiffened, hand straying to the hilt of his sheathed knife. “But, Father, I want to fi—”

“Now!”

The boy scampered away through the rain that had begun to tumble from the sky in waves, swiftly turning the ground to mud. Solomon sloshed through it, sweeping his sword toward any enemy target it could reach. He fought to keep his breath as he split one man's thorax with a thrust and cut another's throat with a whistling slice through the air. He saw a few of the enemy, enough, break through the lines and rush the wagon through his troops, lost in the intensity of battle further complicated by the night and the sudden storm.

With only a quartet of his men left to defend the wagon, Solomon slipped through the carnage of flying limbs and blood mixing with the rain, sword whirling like a wheel to clear his path. He caught two of the enemy rushing the wagon and cut them down from behind when they neared the horses. A third turned to confront him and Solomon unleashed a vicious strike from the side that lopped off his head. By then, though, six more of the enemy had reached the wagon, too many for his guards there to put down.

Solomon rushed to save his destiny, his people's destiny, a desperate cry freezing him in his tracks.

“Father!”

He swung to see Rehoboam in the grasp of one of the enemy soldiers, struggling as the man drew him from the tent with one hand, ready to use his sword with the other. If he moved now, he might be able to save the boy. But the wagon was closer, its desperately vital contents in jeopardy as well.

Solomon turned from his son and his cries and, letting out a scream that pierced the night, surged on. Unleashing a fury when he reached the wagon that reddened the rain and soaked the rags he wore for disguise in both blood and entrails. The smell of it remained thick in the air, the guards who'd stayed with the wagon and those who sought to steal its contents all dead by the time Solomon sank to his knees in the mud, feeling Benaiah jerk him back to his feet.

“It's over, my King. We killed most, chased the others off.”

“Rehoboam,” Solomon remembered, turning toward the tent breathless.

The boy was kneeling over the body of his attacker, as the rain washed the last of the blood off the blade of his knife. Solomon rushed back to the heir to his crown and took the boy in his arms.

“We live, my son,” he said over the boy's sobs. “Now, come with me so you may see what nearly cost us our lives.”

He wrapped an arm around his son's trembling shoulders and led him toward the wagon. Rehoboam's shaking had stilled a bit by the time they reached it, Solomon easing back the animal skin covering the rear.

“Behold the most divine symbol of our people.”

The boy's eyes widened, his face glistening in the glow emanating from the contents. The horses neighed, kicking at the ground as if suddenly agitated and unsettled.

“Father, is it…”

“A gift from God Himself, providing we prove ourselves worthy of it.”

Rehoboam stretched a hand out into the glow, but the king covered the wagon again before he could get any closer. He eased his son away, surveying the carnage left behind by the battle and laying a hand lightly upon Rehoboam's head.