The Thirteenth Legion (A James Acton Thriller, #15) (James Acton Thrillers) (28 page)

“What
else is new?” muttered Niner.

“My
completely off the record advice is to do whatever is necessary to complete
your mission without risking your own lives. These are
not
the Triarii
you dealt with in the past. We’ve confirmed the reports we received from Agent
Reading. There were nine attacks across the globe in the past week, most with
deaths, not including the kidnapping of the professors. Nobody put them
together before, but once we knew what to look for, we did. If this is indeed
the Deniers, they won’t hesitate to kill you.”

Dawson
let a burst of air out. “Roger that, Control. I’m making a command decision.
Enjoy the show. Zero-One, out.”

Their
mission was the professors, not the experiment, not world politics, not
treaties between nations. Langley had confirmed what he already knew. Their
opponent was determined and willing to use deadly force, and he wasn’t about to
tiptoe around them, putting the men under his command at risk.

He
activated his comm, broadcasting to the entire team.

“Bravo
Team, Zero-One. Use of deadly force is authorized.”

Control Center, Denier Installation, Iceland

“Advance another ten millimeters.”

Acton’s
heart pounded hard, the sweat beading on his forehead ignored, the back of his
shirt damp. The excitement in the room was electric, even the once monotone
drone of the announcements over the PA now laced with adrenaline.

The
needle had moved.

Something
had happened.

They had
paused for nearly five minutes to review the readings, to see if anything else
would happen, but nothing had. The needle had jumped slightly as the skulls
moved toward each other, then settled back at zero.

Laura’s
nails dug into his shoulders, the pain finally making itself felt. He patted
her hand and she immediately eased up.

“Sorry.”

He shook
his head, dismissing the unnecessary apology, instead his eyes shifting from
the monitor showing the skulls moving almost imperceptibly forward, to the
readout in front of him, his hand hovering near, though not over, the kill
switch.

The
needle jumped.

Gasps
and aborted cheers erupted before it immediately settled back down to zero.

But it
was enough.

Acton
was convinced.

There
was something to this.

Could
the Triarii history be accurate, and not just a misinterpretation of past
events, or worse, a boldfaced lie? Could London indeed have been nearly
destroyed in 1212 because three of these had been placed next to each other?
The story told to him by Rodney Underwood had been that there was a humming
sound that was ignored, then eventually a massive explosion. Could this delayed
reaction be what they were seeing?

His
chest tightened and his mouth went dry as a thought occurred to him.

“Umm,
Martin.”

Chaney
held up a hand, cutting off Acton as he discussed the latest results in a
huddle with several scientists. They broke, Chaney striding quickly over to
Acton’s station. “Yes?”

He
sounded impatient.

And excited.

His eyes
were filled with a fervor that Acton had only seen in fanatics.

And it
was perfectly understandable.

He felt
it himself.

“I
assume you’ve confirmed these aren’t instrument malfunctions.”

Chaney
nodded. “Of course.”

“Then
shouldn’t we be mindful of what happened in London?”

“Excuse
me?”

“In 1212.”

Chaney’s
eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“If I
remember Rodney’s explanation”—a momentary flash of shame and anguish clouded
Chaney’s face at the mention of his old friend’s name—“he said there was a
humming sound before the explosion, and I believe there was some time between the
explosion and the skulls being placed together.”

Chaney
pursed his lips, taking a slow breath as he considered Acton’s words. “Yes,
actually, that’s right. Why?”

“Well,
these spikes that are happening, could it be a delayed reaction of some sort? I
mean, could things be building up that we don’t realize, and before we know it,
there’ll be a sudden release that we can’t control?”

One of
the scientists stepped over, apparently having listened in. “We’re showing no
indication of any buildup within the skulls, and the system is designed to
handle a surge.”

“How
much energy has been produced so far?” asked Laura.

“Very
little.” The scientist motioned with her tablet at the lights overhead. “Not
even enough to power these lights for a few seconds.”

Acton
felt his tension ease somewhat. If they were dealing with such a small release
each time, then it would suggest any buildup to this point—if there was any at
all—would be equally insignificant. “Where’s the power going?”

“Into a
set of large capacitors that then drain.”

“How
much power can these capacitors hold?”

“A lot,
but if they’re overloaded, these large dishes”—she pointed overhead to an array
of what Acton had mistakenly assumed were satellite dishes—“can transmit the
energy harmlessly as microwaves.”

Acton
nodded. “And their capacity?”

The
scientist smiled. “Massive. Don’t worry, Professor Acton, we’ve been planning
this for a long time.” She turned to Chaney, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“And it looks like it’s about to pay off.” She returned to her station,
Chaney’s eyes following her, Acton getting a sense there might be some budding
romance between the two. Chaney’s eyes returned to his guests.

“Satisfied?”

“As much
as I can be, I guess.” Acton looked at the man, feeling his excitement building
within himself. “I guess you were right.”

Chaney
grinned like a child. “It would appear so.” The grin faded. “I just wish the
Proconsul were here to see it.” He sighed. “And all the others who had to die
to make this happen.”

Main Venting Port, Denier Installation, Iceland

“Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs,”
muttered Niner, channeling his best Bruce Willis imitation as he crawled
through the narrow ductwork, a steady hot breeze pushing against him, though
nothing serious. He activated his comm. “Zero-Seven, One-One. Just wanted to
report that there’s no way your ample hips would have fit in here, over.”

“One-One,
I’ll have you know big hips run in my family so I feel no shame.”

“So, what
you’re saying is”—Niner channeled his inner Kat Graham—“I got it from my mama,
I got it, got it, g-got it?”

“Please
stop singing, you’re killing me.”

Niner
pushed forward, nearing a grate marking the end of the shaft. “So, back to your
mama’s hips. I’ve met your mama, she’s got much nicer hips than yours.”

“I
agree,” said Spock. “Much nicer.”

“Can we
please stop talking about my mama’s hips? I’m going to have to crack some
skulls if this keeps up.”

Niner
grinned as he reached the grate. “Now, your sister. She’s definitely got your mama’s
hips.”

“That’s
it, BD, I’m killing him when we get out of here.”

“Use of
deadly force is authorized,” came Dawson’s reply.

Niner
peered through the grate and frowned. “That’s okay, Spock will help me.”

“I’m out
of this. You’re the one who brought up the man’s sister.”

“All I
suggested was that she was a fine looking woman.”

“Which
means you think his mother is a fine looking woman,” replied Spock. “Like I
said, I’m out of this. Your skinny little ass is on its own.”

“Yeah,”
rumbled Atlas, “a skinny little ass that I now own.”

Niner
pushed gently on the grate. “Again with the flattery. Now, if you two don’t
mind, I’d like to report.”

“Please!”
replied Dawson.

“Okay.
I’m at the end of this shaft. Looks like some sort of mechanical room or
something. There’s a big ass fan in our way but it’s barely moving.”

“Can you
shut it down?”

Niner examined
the blades. There was no way he’d be able to do any real work, the spinning blades
blocking access, though a small charge shoved into the right place would work.
A big charge on the center of the blade would definitely work. “Yeah, but it
could be loud. Give me a—” He froze, the sound of the fan’s motor kicking into
a higher gear sending his heart racing. “Shit!”

“What?”

“It’s
speeding up.”

“Then
stop talking about the Atlas family’s hips and blow that thing.”

“Roger
that.” He punched the corner of the grate, it popping loose, he catching it
before it fell to the floor below. The fan was going full force now, almost
taking his breath away. He reached behind him, feeling for a charge, gripping
the smaller package, then paused.

Go
big or go home.

He
grabbed the larger device.

“It’s
gonna be loud!”

Control Center, Denier Installation, Iceland

“Advance another ten millimeters.”

Laura’s
eyes were glued to the skulls overhead. She could recognize the one she had
studied for years at the British Museum, its familiar grinning face almost
comforting among the tension and excitement of the situation. Yes, they were
here voluntarily, or at least that was what she had told herself. The reality
was Chaney had insisted they come, then when they had protested, resorted to
tempting them with being a part of history.

And it
had worked.

She had
to admit she was stunned that James had been the first to cave. The skulls had
been part of her life’s work, not his. The skulls had brought them nothing but
pain since they met, and before that, for her, mockery and snickers behind her
back. Her scientific papers on the skulls had all been discredited after the Triarii
had substituted the genuine skulls for fakes before the BBC arranged testing,
and ever since then, the entire field of study considered quackery. Even she
had relegated the carving to a storage room, picking up the pieces of a nearly
shattered career.

Yet she
had persevered, the past now forgotten among her peers, she now occupying a
prestigious post at the Smithsonian, a post that allowed her and James to share
a life together, a life she wouldn’t trade for the world.

She
looked down at him in his chair, it clear he shared the excitement she felt,
his hand, hovering over the kill switch, shaking from the adrenaline that
fueled them all.

The
needle jumped.

Her
lungs burned.

She took
a breath, not realizing she had been holding it, then pointed at the read out.

“Look!”

The
needle had jumped then immediately settled back down.

Though
not to zero.