Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (44 page)

“I don’t,” Rostik said, resigned. “I simply wished to know of any unstated risks.”

“Okay, of course you
wished to know
. I’ll tell you then, all is as previously discussed. However, if you abandoned your customary discretion at the divers’ building, you will understand if
I
must avoid the
risk
of future exposure.”

“I had nothing to with anything that occurred there,” Rostik said, eyeing his companions in the SUV. “I left behind a sub while we followed the target out of the city.”

“Give me the details of your location.”

As Rostik organized his thoughts, he shared the location and specifics. Once Ostrovsky confirmed everything and was satisfied, Rostik asked, “Will you be coming here personally?”

“Perhaps. I’m already in the region. Just remember that the target—neither target—is to be harmed in any way.”

After hanging up, Rostik shut off his phone and slipped it back in his right pocket, then withdrew the other phone from his left pocket and waited for it to power up. Yuri gave him an inquiring look and thumbs-up/thumbs-down gesture. Rostik motioned to standby one more minute, dialed the number, and turned his back to the windows.

“Status?” the man said in English.

“They arrived at destination. It is place my employer seeked. You say when we make deal, target is one, plus bonus paid for bonus things. I think this qualify as big bonus.”

“That’s fine. I’ll hold up my end.”

Rostik appreciated the man’s business sense. Not like Ostrovsky, who punctuated each statement with demands. The man saw when talk shifted to negotiation and always spoke with the proper respect due a partner. When a deal is set, a deal is set. He’s then calling the shots. This was the arrangement. But at this stage, whenever it should arise, they were equals.

“What if there was
bonus
bonus?” Rostik added.

“Compensation would be scaled accordingly,” said the man. “Do tell.”

“What if my employer should be arrived in person?”

“Mmm … yes, by all means, this would indeed call for a significant raise. I believe a double-over would be fair in this instance. One for the target, two for the bonus materials, four for the guest. Seven total. If this is agreeable, I have questions prior to securing a new verbal contract.”

“This is agreeable,” Rostik replied. This was far more than agreeable. Rostik had expected standard bonus divisions: half a million for first bonus, another half for second, totaling two million. But
seven
million US? He could more-than-comfortably retire on that. “What is your questions?”

“With how many others will he be arriving?” the man asked.

“Not sure,” Rostik said. “Assume no less than four, no more than ten. Four or five is most likely. Plus his self.”

“And you still have three with you?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Here is what I’ll need, and we’ll have a new contract …”

* * *

Leonardo entered the tunnel first, pulling on the headlamp and preparing to bolt all the way through to the other side. He heard Josh’s footsteps—close behind at first, but then mute. Leo glanced behind him to see Josh kneeling down just inside the archway.

“What are you doing?” Leo whispered. “We gotta move!”

Josh laid flat on the damp, compacted sand. “I think they’re backing up. Hang on a second.”

“Dude, are you mental? This might be our only chance! Matthew said not to take any stupid chances, or even look back to see if they’re following. What do you think we have to gain by seeing what they’re doing?”

“They stopped behind that last mound,” Josh hushed.

“I’m seriously about to leave you here, dude. If you can see them, they can see you. What if the quads were stolen and we have to boot it out? Our only advantage is a head start, and bullets sort of narrow that gap.”

“They can’t see me. I’m in the shadow and looking through a super thin sliver under the van … The SUV’s just sitting there. Why would they just sit there?”

“Okay, they’re sitting there. Your spy skills are friggin mind-blowing, dude. Let’s go. Now.”

Josh scooted up on an elbow and twisted around to look at him. “What if they’re not coming after us because they’ve got another car on the other side, waiting to head us off? What if we’re sandwiched in here?”

Leo rubbed his head and pulled at his beard. “There’s literally
zero
reason for us to think that. Can we just stick to the damned plan? And seriously, if some fantasy other car is on the other side, how does it help us to be over here on
this
side, this close to the friggin car we
do
know is full of killers?”

Josh’s head now lay sideways in the sand, inching to the left for another angle on their pursuers. “Personally, I’d rather be close to the vehicle we can jump back into in two seconds if we have to. Oh, hey, one of them got out.”

“Screw it, I’m going!” Leo turned to run.

“N’n’n’no!” Josh whispered. “He’s getting on the phone.”

Despite the cool, feces-tinged air and constant breeze, Leo’s back and chest were sweating like he’d run a marathon. He paced and considered ditching Josh. This was
not
what Matthew had said to do. He was so specific, like
“Do all of this exactly as I say, and you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
What the hell made Josh—a goddamn cook—think he had better judgment that Matthew Turner, who’s obviously been through so much unbelievable madness?

More importantly, why was Leo even thinking about any of this? Just go! Josh wants to stay and gather friggin
intelligence
, or whatever, fine! “I’m leaving. See you on the other side, dude.”

“All right, all right, I’m coming—wait, he’s getting back in!”

“So?!”

“So, what if they just leave right now? You wanna ride forty miles through the desert for nothing?”

Two dull
thumps
sounded outside, like hammering underwater at solid rock. An instant later, two more … another—five in all.

“Holy hell.” Josh clambered to his knees, crawled backward, and sprang up. “Holy hell, dude, go!” He shoved Leo forward. “He just shot them!”

“Shot who?!” Leo said as he scurried deeper into the tunnel, fumbling to turn on the headlamp. “Who shot who?!”

“The driver guy! He closed the door, said some stuff, and just shot all of his buddies, like in two seconds!”

The headlamp’s beam bounced and swung across the tunnel walls. Keys and coins and footfalls echoed as if amplified ten times. The man in the car would hear them and come after them. The tunnel smelled of sewer and death, and Leo imagined he knew why. This was where anyone could kill someone and just leave the body to rot. The squishes and crunches beneath their feet were dozens of decomposing carcasses.

Light!

The other side appeared after a bend, and a few strides later, the silhouettes of ATVs sharpened at the tunnel end.

As Matthew had indicated, the ATVs’ respective keys sat taped behind the center tail light.

“Hang on,” Josh said as Leo mounted the first quad. “Let’s push them out and to the side. Might not make much difference, but I know for a fact starting them in here is gonna blare out the other end like a megaphone.”

Leo didn’t argue. He kicked the transmission into neutral, and rolled the ATV outside. Josh pushed from the back, helping him up the small rise. He set the brake, and the pair retrieved the second quad.

Helmets and goggles on, they started their engines and eased from the clearing, following the northeast trail.

Forty-five minutes later, with the last of twilight’s blue glow dimming in the west, they reached the two-lane road and crossed into a private farm’s driveway. As Matthew described, the property was surrounded by a tight wall of poplar trees, and just beyond the trees sat a nondescript box truck with ramp rails. Josh raised the truck’s roll-up door, and Leo drove the first ATV inside.

Once both quads were fully secured inside, Josh found a small cooler in the cab. He handed an icy water bottle to Leo (who was now lighting a second cigarette with the remnants of his first), and they toasted to “Not being dead yet.”

A hollow rhythm began clapping from the low range of hills behind them. As it grew louder and deeper, Leo realized it was only an echo, and that the beat of the helicopter was, in fact, emanating from southwest.

Alexandria, Aegyptus – 271 CE

Hours passed in a bewildering haze of movement and whispers, strangers and familiar voices, unintelligible questions, a juddering cart, rippling river. Someone had earlier wrapped Patra in a cloak. Another put her in a cart that smelled of goats and old milk, draping a heavy sheet over her. By a river, someone tried to pry Patra’s hands from her waist, where Kaleb’s key sat in rolled layers of wool, secured under her belt.

“He longs to be held as well as to hold, Steward,”
insisted a voice.

White beard, gentle eyes.

Dark face, suspicious eyes.

“My Queen is not knowing of this person.”
Another man—thick, formidable voice attempting Greek.
“Orders they were clear.”

Patra became aware of arms wrapped around her waist. A knobby knuckle pressed into her hip.

Another man:
“Our Queen knows me, and I know him. In any case, I’m afraid there are no other options. I leave you now.”

Creaking wood, a stick’s crack, hooves, wheels rolling away.

Patra’s focus moved from a man waiting in a small boat, to the old man before her. Nelpus … It was Nelpus. He was speaking to a tall Palmyrene man in a cloak, one of Zenobia’s commanders disguised as a Jew. A matching Palmyrene—wide and stocky—stood with him, face recently mauled, though the gash, stretching from one side of the nose past the opposite side of the mouth and jaw, no longer bled.

As more muddled words were spoken, her gaze hung on the ripped flesh around the lips, the missing teeth, the man’s intermittent sucking and licking around the hole. He caught her staring, glared, and snappily cut his eyes down to her side.

Puzzled, she followed his look, finding a hooded young man clinging to her waist, head down. She’d been aware of the trembling arms, the knuckle rooting into her bone, but only as some distant, detached phenomena.

“Hello,” she said, and the word cracked in her dry throat. She swallowed. “Who is this?”

Nelpus—it was Nelpus who accompanied her here—drew his attention from the boatman and came to her. “Steward, yes, good to see you …
roused
.” He extracted from a satchel a tied bundle of three scrolls, holding it before her. “From the Prince. Protect these as you would the boy. They go with him. The Prince promised his titles and wealth,
eh
, to the boy’s father.”

Her cramped fingers uncurled from the key, and she took the scrolls from him. “Kaleb?” She peered once more at the cloaked young man’s head. “He was captured.”

“Capture and
el-yetht
, Lady,” the commander said.

Patra once knew this word … Aramaic …

“Please,” Nelpus interjected, “the Steward needn’t hear of these things now.”

El-yet … when butchering an animal … Like the Jews, they hung the beast to drain the blood and empty the viscera. Kaleb …

“Go on,” she said in Aramaic, “I understand.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the commander replied, relieved to speak naturally. “The ruse endures, however. They believe him the other man, so now only seek you.”

Kaleb sacrificed himself for Philip. He could’ve run, though! We all could’ve run together! Someone will recognize him. Too many people know the stewards.

The sky was brightening beyond the river.

“Was-” The words caught in her throat. She coughed and swallowed. “Was he burned?” The boy hugged her tighter.

“Steward, don’t,” Nelpus attempted.

“Was he burned?!” she demanded. “If he wasn’t, any number of snakes will be all too pleased to expose the deception.”

“He was burned,” the commander replied, “by my Queen. They strung him from the Library arch, made him suffer for a short time, demanding to know where you were. And my Queen seized a torch to end it and keep the deception.”

A mix of horror and relief washed over Patra, but only for an instant. “And what did they do to the Queen for this?”

“The Emperor …” Agitated, the commander shifted his neck. “The Emperor laughed and applauded her for doing his work for him, but this was only to take away his embarrassment. Then he said to his people that my Queen was renowned for her chastity, that in her life she never took for herself no men but her husband, even so long ago dead. And then he said instead of taking her head, he would take her with him back to Rome …” He shuddered. “He said the voyage back would be
enjoyable
for them both.”

“And Wahbi?” Patra said. “Your King?”

The commander hesitated, eyes wandering about. He cleared his throat. “The Emperor then said that since he wasn’t taking my Queen’s head, the balance of justice was spoilt. And he went behind my King, rubbed his shoulders in a father’s way, and cut his throat open.”

A stifled scream burst from Patra, and her knees weakened once more, but before she could collapse, the quaking boy on her side stiffened his grip again. Her heart was withering. She could endure no more of this. She would grab up one of the chests littered about the riverbank, and hurl it, and herself, into the canal.

The monster executed him in front of his mother. Zenobia would’ve killed Antonius with her bare hands if there were any opportunity whatsoever. So, too, would I.

Swiftly, Nelpus moved close to her, touched her arm, and gently lifted her chin to face him. “Steward, please. You’ve this boy,
Neos
, to care for now. I had the adoption ratified yesterday. He is now Prince Kaleb’s son.”

“Adoption?” Patra murmured.

Nelpus nodded purposefully, eyes wide and kindly smile. “Yes … Neos.”

He directed her attention downward while raising the boy’s chin.

Neos’s face came into view, twisted with angst, his weeping eyes clenched shut. He wasn’t trembling with fever, but inconsolable grief. He wasn’t the son of a perished farmer who masqueraded as Kaleb, he was King Wahb Allat of Palmyra, son of Queen Zenobia, or his Roman name, Augustus Julius Septimius Vabalathus Athenodorus, or as Patra knew him: Wahbi.