The Thirteenth Legion (A James Acton Thriller, #15) (James Acton Thrillers) (21 page)

“—is to
accompany me and try to effect a rescue.”

Atlas’
hand darted out, shoving Niner off his feet. “Do we know where they are?”

Dawson
shook his head as Niner mooned Atlas. “No clue at this point, but CIA is going
to start feeding us intel shortly.” Dawson paused, everyone becoming serious
again. “This is off the books with the Colonel’s nod, so this is voluntary.”

Atlas
stood up straight, his eyes squarely on Dawson. “That pretty lady has had too
many bad things happen to her. I’m in.”

Spock
stepped forward, joining Atlas. “Me too. Those two saved our asses getting us
out of Saudi Arabia. I owe them one.”

Niner
dusted himself off, standing beside Atlas. “Same here. If it wasn’t for them, I’d
probably be in some Vietnamese prison.”

Jimmy
opened his mouth, but Dawson waved him off. “Sorry, buddy, I can only take
three. Red needs you and the others for an op.”

Jimmy
frowned, clearly not pleased. “Any idea what?”

“You’re
headed to Columbia to do some training.”

Niner
punched Jimmy. “Shoulda spoke up sooner.”

“I was
being polite.”

“What
are you, Canadian?”

Dawson smacked
his hands together. “Okay, say your goodbyes, get yourselves squared away, and
be ready to leave on a moment’s notice. Hopefully we’ll get a phone call that
they turned up at a romantic retreat, but with the Triarii involved, I think
we’re not going to get that lucky.”

Northern Gaul, Roman Empire
November 1, 64 AD

Flavus swung his sword, slicing open the stomach of a filthy Gaul,
stopping him in his tracks as he gripped at his innards spilling over his
hands. But Flavus had already moved on, the battle continuing to rage, the
Legion attacked in strength from all sides. The screams of the dying from both parties
surrounded him, the pounding of hooves, the clanging of metal on metal, of fist
on flesh, was overwhelming, and though his fellow Romans were holding their
own, they were losing too many.

They
would prevail tonight, hopefully, yet it wouldn’t matter.

They
were too few to make it to Britannia.

It was
time.

He
glanced over at his legate, directing the battle from his command tent, the man
calm through it all.

He would
miss him.

“Triarii,
with me!” he shouted, his sword raised high.

A roar
rose from the teeming masses and a wedge of men formed around him, they already
informed of what would happen should things look dire. They charged through the
hordes of attackers, slicing through the lines like an arrow through a buck’s
hide.

Something
leapt through the air to his left. He spun to see a Gaul clear the line of men
guarding him, swinging an axe. It grazed Flavus’ shoulder and he cried out as
he swung his sword, cleaving the man’s head in two. As he continued forward, he
reached behind him, feeling for the cloth bag carrying the skull, sighing in
relief that it was still intact.

The
brave warriors of the Triarii, the third and final line of defense of the
Thirteenth Legion, carved through the enemy and reached the tree line, a rear
guard forming to block any pursuers, Flavus and the rest charging forward,
through the trees, encountering fewer and fewer of the enemy. They pressed
onward, the din of the battle behind them growing faint until soon there was
nothing.

Flavus
signaled a halt in a clearing and they stopped, the Triarii that remained, less
than thirty, forming a circle around him, though all eyes were on the distance,
the battle casting an orange, flickering glow on the thick clouds overhead.

“I can’t
believe we left them,” said one of the men.

Flavus
felt the same, and though he was young, he knew this type of talk would do no
good. “We have our orders. They sacrificed themselves for the good of Rome. Our
mission is to get this skull to Britannia and to end the curse it has inflicted
upon our home and her people.”

He began
to strip off his armor and other accoutrements of the trade, leaving it in a
pile, the others reluctantly doing the same. Within minutes, they appeared not
as the most elite of Roman soldiers, but mere weary peasants.

Not
worthy of attention.

Flavus
turned to the men. “I know I am young and inexperienced, but by rank I am the
senior officer.”

The most
senior of the remaining Triarii snapped to attention. “Your orders shall not be
questioned!”

The
others all turned to face Flavus, snapping to attention, their shoulders
square, their heads held high with pride.

Flavus
smiled. “Good, I had no doubt. You are all the best Rome has to offer, and
together we shall protect her from the cursed evil that this statue
represents.” He raised his sword, pointing it toward the sky over the distant
battle, the others joining him as they faced their comrades still being
slaughtered. “We the Triarii salute our fallen brothers! May the gods protect
the souls of the Thirteenth Legion and grant the fallen their much deserved
peace in Elysium!”

The
Triarii roared in unison, three times, then dropped to a knee, burying their swords
into the ground as they bowed their heads.

“May I
join you?”

The men
leapt to their feet, all swords pointed toward the voice emerging from the darkness.

“Halt,
who goes there?”

“A
friend, I assure you.”

A little
old man was quickly surrounded as he approached Flavus.

“And who
are you, old man?” asked Flavus, the man appearing vaguely familiar.

“I am Ananias,
the keeper of the skull you now possess.”

Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Present Day

“What have you got?”

Leroux
entered the operations center, swiftly taking his spot at the hub of activity,
his team manning the various terminals surrounding him as his eyes came to rest
on the massive displays arcing around the front of the room.

One of
his techs, Randy Child, pointed at the center screen. “Homeland reports that
Professor Acton’s and Palmer’s passports were used yesterday for a charter
flight to England.”

Leroux’s
eyebrows shot up. “Really? Do we have footage showing it was actually them?”

Child
nodded, hitting a few keys, footage immediately playing that showed the two
missing professors exiting the private terminal, unaccompanied.

What
the hell is going on here? Are we on a wild goose chase?

An ember
of anger formed at the thought of what he was missing back at the hotel thanks
to these two people, who looked for all intents and purposes to be heading on a
rather well-heeled vacation, something he could never dream of affording.

“They
arrived in England seven hours later at a private terminal at Easton Airport,
and were met by these people.”

Leroux’s
eyes narrowed, the anger subsiding slightly.

These
guys don’t look like valets.

“Any IDs
yet?”

Child
nodded. “Yup.” The image zoomed in on the man who seemed to be the center of
attention. “This is Rodney Underwood.”

The name
sounded vaguely familiar. “Why do I know that name?”

“He was
an employee at the British Museum, a security guard at the time of the incident
in London with Delta. All the files on that op are classified way beyond my
clearance, so there’s not much more I can tell you, but since Professor Palmer
used to be head of archeology there, I think there’s a good chance she knows
him, and since his employment terminated right after those events, I’m guessing
he was involved somehow.”

Leroux
nodded, the file now recalled, and it was indeed way above Child’s security
clearance. “Logical assumption.” Leroux frowned. “So, we’ve got two wealthy
professors, boarding a private jet alone, landing in England, and being met by
someone one of them used to work with.” He shook his head. “Could this just be
an innocent trip? They didn’t tell people their plans?”

Sonya
Tong, another analyst who happened to carry a torch for her boss, spoke up.
“That wouldn’t explain the shooting at the mall, nor this.” She tapped some
keys and another image appeared of Rodney Underwood. She zoomed in on his left
side, a shoulder holster clearly visible. “That’s something you don’t see often
in the UK.”

Leroux agreed.
“True.”

“And
also, Professor Palmer didn’t pay for the flight.”

Leroux’s
eyebrows rose slightly as he turned to Tong. “She has a private jet, doesn’t
she?”

Sonya
nodded as she tapped the keyboard, a flurry of scanned receipts and bookings
flashing on one of the displays. “She’s part of a sharing network. That’s
basically how they’ve been travelling the past couple of years, exclusively. If
this were some planned getaway, wouldn’t they have flown on one of the jets
available to her? And even if it wasn’t, from her records, she seems to be able
to get one at a moment’s notice.”

Leroux
pursed his lips, processing the intel. Two rich professors with a penchant for
getting into trouble, definitely kidnapped—or perhaps rescued—now apparently
voluntarily boarding a private jet paid for by someone else, then landing in
London and meeting a former security guard, possibly tied up with the Triarii
affair from several years ago.

Something
didn’t add up.

“They’re
being coerced.”

Everyone
turned around to face him. “What are you thinking?” asked Child.

“I’m
thinking that someone tried to kidnap them. Someone else intervened, saving
them. But if their saviors did it for purely altruistic reasons, then the
professors would have been released by now. Instead, they board a plane for
London. They wouldn’t do that, not with what had happened in the parking lot. They
would know the authorities and their friends and families would be looking for
them, worried.” He shook his head. “They got on that plane, but it wasn’t by
choice.” He turned to Child. “Do we know where they went after they landed?”

Child
shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re having CCTV footage pulled, but it’s going
to take some time. But”—he held up a finger—“I may have a lead on that.”

“What?”

His
fingers flew over the keyboard then Child pointed at the screen, LiveLeak
videos appearing. “We’ve been pulling anything unusual in the UK after their
arrival, and found this.”

Leroux
watched several different videos displaying simultaneously of what appeared to
be a busy crime scene, dozens of emergency vehicles involved, along with
reporters and onlookers. “What am I looking at?”

“The
aftermath of a shootout. A
very
bloody,
very
violent shootout.
Lots of bodies. But look at this.” A video appeared on the main screen of a
body on a gurney, a gust of wind catching the sheet covering it, revealing the
face. A tap of a key and the image froze. “Now look.” Another image appeared
beside the dead man’s face, a file photo of one Rodney Underwood.

Leroux whistled.
“Christ, that’s him!” He looked around at his team. “Excellent work, people.
Soon you won’t need me to bother coming in.”

Smiles
were exchanged, Sonya’s longing eyes suggesting that wasn’t the outcome she had
been hoping for.

“Okay,
so I think we can safely say the professors may have ended up here.” He paused
as he realized what that meant, the footage showing body after body wheeled
past. “We need to find out if any of the bodies match their description.”

“I’m on
it,” said Child.

“And see
if we had a bird over the area. I want to see if we have anything showing this
going down.”